The Hemingford Scandal

by Mary Nichols

  The next day was just as good. As soon as breakfast was over, Jane wrote to her father, her aunt and Mr Allworthy to tell them they had arrived safely. Once the letters had been sent to the post, Harry took the girls to Bowness in the gig and hired a little sailing boat. ‘I will make sailors of you before the day is out,’ he said, helping them aboard.

  It was hard work, but they set to with a will and were soon skimming over the water in a light breeze with Harry at the tiller. They put in to a little secluded bay, where they disembarked to eat their picnic. Afterwards, they leaned back and watched a few fluffy white clouds sailing past above their heads, laughed at a family of ducks waddling by and held their breaths as a group of rabbits ventured out on the bank beside them, their fears allayed by the stillness of the watchers.

  ‘If Posset were here, he would take his shotgun to them,’ Harry whispered.

  ‘Then I am glad he is not,’ Jane whispered back.

  The rabbits disappeared as quickly as they had arrived, alerted by the sound of oars and voices as a group of young men rowed past. Almost reluctantly, they returned to the boat and had another sailing lesson, this time on how to tack into the wind, making their slow way back to the landing stage.

  Jane was exhausted, every muscle ached, but it was a happy tiredness. She could not fault Harry’s behaviour. He had not coddled her or Anne, neither had he expected too much of them. He had praised them when they did well and chaffed them when they made a mistake. Once, when Jane let the boom go and it swung out of control, almost turning the boat over, he had caught it with commendable swiftness and averted disaster. She had no idea how much effort he was putting into being a disinterested friend when all he wanted to be was a lover.

  It was the same every day, and each day Jane felt the tension ease from her until she could join them in reminiscing about their childhood, recalling adventures they had all three enjoyed: the day he had fallen out of a tree chasing a squirrel and broken his arm; the day Jane fell in the river and Harry had pulled her out dripping wet and covered with slimy weed; the day Anne was thrown from her horse after making a wager with Harry that she could jump a particularly high hedge. Neither set of parents had learned of these escapades because they always covered up for each other.

  ‘What dreadful children we were,’ Anne said. ‘We could have killed ourselves a dozen times over.’

  They were returning from a longer jaunt to the coast in the growing dusk and were winding their way across the moors on a very narrow track which was only just wide enough for the gig. Harry had to drive very carefully. ‘It is a pity we had to grow up,’ he said.

  ‘But we did, and we are still friends,’ Anne said. ‘Is that not wonderful?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jane said, thoughtfully. ‘Real friendship endures.’

  Every day Jane slipped more and more into a kind of lethargic complacence. She hardly thought of Donald and when she did, thrust the image from her mind, telling herself that there was plenty of time, but time was running out and they could not stay hidden away forever.

  The day before they were due to go home, Harry fulfilled his promise to hire ponies. Anne did not care for riding and elected to go shopping in Bowness with her aunt, leaving Jane and Harry to ride alone. It was not galloping terrain and their small round ponies were not suited to it, so they ambled round the head of the lake and into the small wood the other side.

  It was cool among the trees and the light, filtering through the overhead branches, had a golden, greenish tinge. There was a smell of mould and slight scuffling sounds she could not identify. ‘It is like being in a great green underworld,’ she said. ‘We could easily become lost.’

  ‘Not while we stay on the path,’ he said. ‘And there are landmarks.’ He pointed to a huge oak tree, its branches making an umbrella many feet wide. ‘There are not many as big as that. And a little further on there is a little stone hut, home of a hermit. He will tell your fortune if you provide him with food.’

  The hut stood in a small clearing. It had no windows, and a doorway but no door. A wizened old man sat on the ground in the opening. His hair and beard were so long that only his large nose and dark, bright eyes were visible. He wore a ragged cloth coat, which was tied about his middle with a rope, and his feet were bare. He held out a bony hand to them as they approached and dismounted.

  ‘Shall we give him some of our picnic?’ Jane asked, filled with compassion for the poor man.

  He grabbed the bread and chicken leg as soon as it was offered and ate it greedily. ‘Good lady,’ he said, waving the bread in Jane’s direction.

  ‘I know that,’ Harry said.

  The old man ignored him and continued to speak to Jane. ‘Sit down by me and I shall tell you what is coming to you.’

  Jane glanced at Harry questioningly, but he simply shrugged. She smiled and sat down on the ground in front of the hermit, who put his bony hand out and laid it on top of her head. ‘Your head aches,’ he said. ‘You have a problem to solve.’

  ‘It does not take a special gift to tell that,’ Harry said. ‘Most people have problems of one sort or another.’

  The man was not put off. ‘This is a problem of what is right and what is wrong and there is more than one interpretation of it. Right in the eyes of others might not be right in your heart. I have learned that in the years I have been sitting here in solitary contemplation. You are a good woman, you know what is right, but choosing it will not please everyone.’

  She had known all that, of course, but it was uncanny how he had managed to put it into words. ‘Thank you,’ she said, scrambling to her feet and rejoining Harry, who had been watching with tolerant amusement.

  ‘Beware of accidents and meddlers,’ the hermit called after her, as she remounted.

  ‘I hope you thought that was worth half your picnic,’ Harry said, as they rode away. ‘You do not need to be a fortune teller to think up that nonsense.’

  ‘I know, but I suppose he felt he had to give us something in exchange for the food. And really it wasn’t nonsense, not about knowing right from wrong.’

  ‘That is something we all have to face. But accidents and meddlers?’

  She laughed. ‘As soon as he spoke, I was reminded of the Countess of Carringdale.’

  ‘She is certainly a meddler. But you have escaped her clutches, haven’t you?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Why has she got such a hold over your great-aunt?’

  ‘I do not know, except Aunt Lane has always been very attached to her aristocratic connections. They seem to be important to her, perhaps because her husband had no title and she was disappointed by it. And the Countess is such a strong character.’

  ‘But not stronger than you.’

  ‘How can you say so? I ran away rather than face her and it has only postponed a confrontation, not eliminated it.’

  ‘And your heart is doing battle with what other people expect of you. My poor Jane, I feel for you.’

  ‘Let us speak of other things,’ she said, unsure whether he was roasting her. ‘I promised myself I would not think of Mr Allworthy while I am here.’

  ‘I am in full agreement with that,’ he said, then laughed. ‘You know I wish we could stay here among the Lakes. I have always been happy visiting my aunt and I could easily make my home here as well as anywhere.’

  ‘What about your grand plan? Anne told me that you had a splendid scheme to develop a new kind of gun.’

  He smiled wryly. There was no need to involve her in his scheming, especially as she had been the one to point out that the highwaymen were really disgruntled dockers and that he had put them to work. It could be dangerous for her. On the other hand, Anne had evidently told her about his fictitious plan to start a business and he could not refuse to speak of it. ‘My grand plan, as you call it, has been postponed,’ he said. ‘It needs capital and I have none.’

  ‘You could take your idea to a banker, surely.’

  ‘Bankers demand collateral and I ha
ve none.’

  ‘Then you had better marry an heiress.’

  He looked at her sharply, wondering if it was meant to be a serious suggestion. ‘I could,’ he said, deciding to humour her. ‘Can you suggest one that might take on an impoverished captain of infantry on half pay?’

  ‘You have the prospect of a title.’

  ‘Would you marry for a title?’

  ‘No. I am not an heiress, but there are many who would.’

  ‘Sorry, Jane, that won’t serve. I will not live under the cat’s paw because my wife holds the purse strings.’

  ‘How cynical. And how proud…’

  ‘My pride is all I have left.’

  ‘Oh, Harry, I am sorry for that, indeed I am. But you are home again now and should be back to normal.’

  ‘What is normal?’

  ‘You know what I mean. Finding a loving wife, having children, passing your days in interesting ways, helping others less fortunate, looking after your grandfather’s estate. He is old, I am sure it would please him.’

  ‘Do you know, you sound just like Anne.’

  She laughed. ‘I shall take that as a compliment.’

  They had been climbing as they rode and now came out of the trees in strong sunlight. It was so bright that for a moment Jane could not focus, but her vision cleared and she realised they had been riding uphill and had come out quite high and before them was a hill of rough brown grass and heather, interspersed with yellow gorse bushes. Above them a kestrel hovered and she reined in to watch it swoop on its tiny prey and fly off with it.

  ‘You think my grand plan is nothing but empty air, then?’ he said, as they continued up towards the summit.

  ‘I cannot tell for I do not understand it, but if it gives you something to do…’ She paused. ‘When Mama died, Papa was lost, he was alive but not alive, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Oh, I do,’ he said fervently.

  ‘But then he had this idea for his book and his enthusiasm for it carried him through and now he is content in his own way.’

  Thinking of Mr Hemingford and his unequivocal preoccupation with his manuscript made him smile, but he did not like the idea that making a better rifle was no more than a pastime to help him overcome his disappointment. ‘You think I should write a book?’

  ‘No,’ she teased. ‘You could never sit still long enough to put a whole sentence together. And you cannot spell.’

  ‘Then it has to be a new gun.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  He tried to explain the technicalities in plain language, though she did not understand half of it. ‘It could save lives,’ he finished. ‘Shorten the war.’

  ‘It is an implement of death. And after the war, it would still be made and it would finish in the hands of robbers and highwaymen and murderers.’

  ‘So would any guns, improved or not. You cannot get away from that. And there will still be sporting guns. You cannot eliminate guns, Jane.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’ She paused. ‘Do you think these animals could be made to trot?’

  ‘Try it and see.’

  The pony was surprisingly agreeable and from a trot was persuaded into a short canter, and then Jane dropped back to a walk to negotiate a particularly steep rise. At the top she stopped to look around her. The whole country seemed spread before her, craggy hills, winding roads, flat sheets of water, a little village, isolated cottages, the wood through which they had passed. ‘It’s magnificent,’ she said, dismounting to rest the little pony. ‘I wish I could put it into words, or paint it.’

  ‘Can you?’ He had dismounted and was standing beside her.

  ‘No, I have no talent for either. I shall have to rely on memory.’

  ‘Then may you always remember it as a happy time.’

  ‘Oh, I shall.’ She turned to face him. ‘I am so grateful for this, Harry.’

  ‘The pleasure is mine,’ he said, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘All I want, have ever wanted, is your happiness…’

  His eyes, as he looked down at her, had taken on that deep, soft brown that she had seen before and which had so disturbed her, speaking to her more eloquently than words. It was always the same. Whenever she thought they had established a bond of friendship, he said something and did something that spoiled it, made her realise that it could never be that disinterested commerce he had spoken of, but something so different it could not be borne. She was, and always had been, under thrall to him, slave to his tyrant.

  ‘Look how the clouds fly across the landscape and change its colour,’ she said, turning away to look at the view again. ‘Bright here, dull there, and a moment later they have moved on and it is all different again.’ That was how she felt, ever changing under the clouds that hung over her.

  He stood beside her, watching the landscape, idly thinking of what she had said. The shadows were scudding at great speed, and then, alerted by a cool wind that had suddenly sprung up from nowhere, he turned and surveyed the horizon behind them. The clouds were massing in grey, purple and magenta, deep and heavy, rolling in over the hills towards them. ‘There is a storm coming,’ he said. ‘We can’t stay here.’

  He had hardly spoken before a flash of lightning split the clouds, and a moment later a rumble of thunder startled her. The once bright landscape became dark and forbidding; she could see the rain coming, sweeping across the landscape as the shadow of the clouds had done earlier. She reached for her bridle to mount, but the pony was restless and disinclined to cooperate.

  ‘Lead her,’ Harry said, raising his voice to make himself heard above the wind. ‘Stay close to her head and talk calmly. We’ll make for those boulders over there.’ He pointed at an outcrop ‘They might give us shelter.’

  The rain swept across them long before they reached their destination, driving into their faces, running down their necks, soaking them in no time. They ran in between two huge boulders that had a slight overhang, bringing the ponies in as far as they could so they had their backs to the oncoming storm. The thunder and lightning was almost continuous and frightening in its intensity. Jane found herself shivering uncontrollably.

  ‘Oh, my poor darling,’ he said, taking off his coat and draping it round her shoulders, holding it there with his arms round her. ‘You look like a drowned rat.’

  ‘So do you.’ His shirt was wet and flattened against his skin, moulding itself to his shape. He had a strong neck, she noticed, and broad shoulders and his arms were comforting. An extra loud rumble made her jump and bury her head into his chest, where she could hear his heartbeat. It was strong and steady, though a little quick, as hers was. He held her close, stroking his chin over her wet hair and wishing the storm could go on forever.

  She turned in his arms and looked up into his face. ‘Harry.’

  ‘Yes, my love?’

  ‘There is nothing to be afraid of, is there?’

  ‘No, nothing in the world,’ he said. Was she talking about the storm or something else altogether? He tilted her chin up with his forefinger and slowly bent his head to kiss her lips very gently, a butterfly’s touch. She did not resist, did not want to resist. She allowed his mouth to move over hers, slowly, adding just a little more pressure, delicately, tenderly, loving her, wanting her to know and understand his love for her, to know that it could not be killed by two and a half years of war, nor under the pressure of outside influence, nor the appearance of a rival. It was eternal. A mere storm could not wash it away.

  He had kissed her before, when they had been engaged, before the scandal erupted, lightly, affectionately, but it had been nothing like this explosion of emotion, this fire burning inside her, this melting of everything until she thought her whole body was turning to liquid. Her legs would not support her. She put her arms round his back, feeling the strength of him holding her safe, keeping her upright and whole, and knew she could never love anyone else.

  He lifted his head at last, to look into her eyes. They were filled with tears
. ‘I have made you cry,’ he said. ‘Forgive me.’

  ‘It’s the rain.’

  ‘Of course, the rain.’ He smiled. She was not indifferent to him, she loved him still, but would she admit it, would she tell him she still wanted him? ‘Jane?’

  She pulled herself from his arms, angry with him, angry with herself. ‘I think the rain has stopped.’ She gave him back his coat, picked up the reins of her pony and, using one of the smaller boulders as a mounting block, pulled herself into the saddle and set off down the hill.

  He stood a moment, the sodden coat in his hand, and watched her. Her back was straight, though her hair hung on her shoulders in soaked tresses. Everything was wet, her clothes, the pony, the saddle and the ground beneath its feet. The path, which had been dry loose scree when they came up, was now a rivulet of water rushing down the hill, making the stones wet and slippery. It was too dangerous to ride. He went after her and seized her bridle. ‘Get off and walk.’

  ‘Let go.’ She tried to wrest the rein from his hand and the pony’s hooves began to slip. He grabbed her from the saddle and set her on the ground. The pony cantered off out of harm’s way and stood still, facing them, defying them to catch her.

  ‘You little fool!’

  ‘Let me go!’ She pummelled at his chest with her fists, but he rode the blows easily. ‘I want to go home. Anne will be worried.’

  He grabbed her wrists and held them away from him. ‘She would be even more worried if you were to break your neck.’