The Hemingford Scandal

by Mary Nichols

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think…’ The words were punctuated by sobs.

  He took her in his arms again. ‘Jane, Jane, what am I to do with you?’

  ‘Take me home. I am cold and wet and—’

  ‘Confused?’

  ‘No.’ She refused to admit it. ‘What a silly thing to say.’

  ‘Yes, wasn’t it?’ he said, smiling grimly. ‘Now, let us lead these animals until we reach more stable ground.’ He caught both mounts and handed over her reins. ‘Go behind me and watch where you are putting your feet.’

  He set off and she followed. His back was straight, his steps sure, but she could tell by the tilt of his head and the slope of his shoulders that he was angry. She supposed he had every right to be; she should never have tried to ride on that slippery slope. All she had been thinking about was to get away from him, away from temptation, away from the bittersweet slavery of loving him. He had cast a spell on her, made her forget herself, and she would not forgive him for it. Would never forgive herself for her weakness. The time had come to think of Donald and what she meant to do about him; it could be put off no longer.

  They stopped at the hermit’s hut. He had retreated a little further into the interior, but he still sat cross-legged on the ground. Jane handed over the uneaten picnic, remounted and rode on silently, following Harry out of the trees, round the top of the lake to Lakeshead House, plodding wearily, shivering with cold and misery, though neither would admit to the latter.

  They were greeted with cries of relief from Anne and Mrs Bartrum. ‘Hot water, up to Miss Hemingford’s bedroom,’ the lady commanded her servant, ushering Jane upstairs as she spoke, leaving Harry to look after himself. Anne followed and helped Jane strip off and climb into a bath set on the rug. Only when she was clad in a warm undress gown and had been given a medicinal tot of brandy did Anne ask her what had happened.

  ‘We were caught in the storm while we were on the summit. There was no shelter.’ She tried to laugh. ‘And the ground was so wet after the rain had passed we had to walk our horses and my riding boots are no good for walking.’

  ‘Didn’t you see it coming?’

  ‘No. We had stopped to rest our mounts and were looking at the scenery. It came on so swiftly, one minute the sun was shining, the next we were in the middle of it.’

  ‘What were you doing?’

  ‘Doing? Why, nothing. Anne, I did not expect to be roasted as if I had brought the storm on purpose.’

  ‘No, of course not. But you are not telling me everything, are you? When you arrived, I could tell by your expression something had happened. And Harry looked as though he would like to murder someone.’

  Jane gave a weak laugh. ‘Me, probably.’

  ‘Why? Did you quarrel?’

  ‘Not exactly. I was wet and he put his coat round me and…’ She paused and swallowed. ‘Anne, he kissed me.’

  ‘The varmint!’ Anne laughed.

  ‘It is not a laughing matter.’

  Anne became serious. ‘No, not if you say it was not. I shall have words to say to my brother on the subject.’

  ‘No!’ The word was spoken sharply. ‘I do not want him to think I considered it of enough import to report it to you.’

  ‘I see. But it evidently was.’

  ‘It has made me realise that your brother does not know how to behave like a gentleman and I was right to break off the engagement.’

  ‘Of all the reasons you could have dreamed up, that is surely the most illogical.’

  ‘It is very logical.’

  ‘Did you tell him that?’

  ‘No, I did not speak to him on the subject. Nor do I want to. Please, Anne, say no more about it.’

  ‘Very well. Are you going to come down for supper?’

  ‘No, if you do not mind, I’ll go straight to bed.’

  Anne left her, crossed the landing and knocked lightly on the door of her brother’s room. When he bade her enter, she found him sitting in fresh pantaloons and shirt, staring out of the window. ‘How are you?’ she asked.

  ‘Me? I am perfectly well. I’ve been wet many times before,’ he said. ‘And with no means to get dry either. How is Jane?’

  ‘She has come to no harm from the soaking, I think.’ She paused. ‘But what have you done to her?’

  ‘What has she said?’

  ‘You kissed her.’

  ‘She told you, did she? I couldn’t help it, Sis. There she was standing in my arms, wet and shivering, her face tilted up to mine, all shining and, I thought, inviting.’

  ‘You are a fool, you know. I promised her—’

  ‘That we would not mention Allworthy. I didn’t. His name never passed my lips, and she spoke it only once and that was to say she didn’t want to think about him. She did not object, not to begin with. Then suddenly she was angry and jumped on that pony and set off at a trot. She could have killed herself and I told her so, too.’

  ‘I told you to be patient.’

  ‘Yes, but how long must I stand by and do nothing? say nothing. I want her now.’

  ‘What do you propose to do about it?’

  ‘Apologise, I suppose. Grovel.’ She did not understand why he suddenly burst into laughter.

  ‘The apology will have to wait until tomorrow,’ she said, ignoring the laughter; he was obviously as distraught as Jane. ‘She has retired.’

  ‘Tomorrow, we go home. You said the air of the Lakes would do its work.’

  ‘I believe it has,’ she said softly.

  He wished she could be right, but he was sure he had cooked his goose. How could a woman of twenty years take offence at something so innocent as a kiss and a kiss given with love, real love, the kind that led to marriage? Was she so artless, so innocent that she thought a kiss condemned her? Or was she reacting as she thought Society expected her to? If she had, then the atmosphere of the Lakes had failed. He had been so sure she was softening towards him. They had laughed a great deal in the last two weeks, teased each other, reminisced, quoted poetry learned at school, smiled at each other, but he had misread all the signs.

  ‘Finish dressing and come down to supper,’ she said, interrupting his reverie. ‘It is our last night and Aunt and Uncle want to hear all about your adventures.’ She laughed. ‘Leave out the kissing, though.’ She left him.

  Slowly he dressed, then left his room. He crossed the landing and stood outside Jane’s door, his hand lifted ready to knock, but then he changed his mind and went downstairs to join the company, masking his hurt and confusion with joviality.

  Jane lay staring at the ceiling until sleep claimed her at last. But the sleep was full of dreams, dreams of Harry, of ponies and storms and fear. The fear was not of the storm, not of falling from her mount, not of a man with a long tangled beard, though he was there too. And so was Donald Allworthy, holding out a glittering necklace, beckoning to her to come and take it from him. And behind her Harry laughed.

  She woke in a cold sweat, but her mind had been made up. She would not marry Mr Allworthy; it was not fair to him. She could not promise to love him, cleave to him and no other, live her life with him, have his children when she was bound to someone else, even if it was impossible to turn to that someone else.

  It was impossible. She had broken off her engagement to Harry for what she considered good and sufficient reason, and both she and he had been the subject of gossip because of it. Some, including Anne, said he had done nothing bad enough to be punished so harshly, others maintained he had been a rakeshame of the worst order; the men who frequented Mary Anne Clarke’s establishment were not respectable. Some people, including her father and Aunt Lane and, she supposed, the Countess of Carringdale through her aunt, had said she should cut him out of her life, he was not worthy of her and she, hurt beyond reason by his conduct, had believed them and sent him away.

  Whatever the truth of it, she had made her decision and she would not change it. To do so would bring it all back into the public eye and they would have to
live it all over again, just when he was being accepted back into Society and she had the offer of marriage from a good man who loved her. Most important of all, Harry had not said he wanted her back, he had only asked for forgiveness and taken advantage of her when she was wet and cold. He thought she was weak, would succumb to kisses without any commitment, and she could not allow that. She was perfectly aware that her mind was trying to justify her behaviour, running from the truth like a hunted fox runs from the hunters.

  The bed beside hers was empty. Anne was already up and dressed. Her box and portmanteau were on the floor, packed and ready to go. Jane rose stiffly, almost reluctantly, washed and dressed, tied her hair back with a ribbon and made her way downstairs. She was not looking forward to that long journey back to London, back to reality. Harry had been so good coming up here, looking after them both, laughing a lot, arguing with his sister, throwing his orders about to innkeepers and ostlers, and no doubt he would be equally solicitous going back, but now it had been spoiled. What would they find to talk about? Would they manage to laugh?

  They were gathered in the breakfast parlour waiting for her. She fixed her face in a bright smile. ‘I am sorry, I overslept. But my things are all packed, ready to go.’ She sat down and accepted a cup of coffee from her hostess, who presided over the pot. ‘Thank you for having me, Mrs Bartrum. It has been a…a wonderful experience and quite restored my health.’

  ‘I am so glad, though after yesterday I began to have my doubts. You were so wet and bedraggled.’

  She managed a light laugh, though she dare not look at Harry, who was stirring his own coffee absent-mindedly. ‘I was well looked after.’

  ‘Yes and I hope he will continue to look after you,’ Mr Bartrum said. ‘But be careful, Harry, my boy, there is a lot of unrest in Lancashire. The handloom weavers have been breaking machinery again. Avoid the trouble, if you can.’

  ‘I will. It’s only a few hotheads, after all. And Simmonds has gone on ahead to arrange the horses; he will alert us if it becomes necessary to change our route.’

  Half an hour later, the carriage was brought to the door, their boxes and bags stowed and Mrs Bartrum was hugging them one by one and begging them to come again.

  ‘We will,’ Anne said.

  Harry fastened a bunch of heather on to the bracket that held the carriage lamp and grinned. ‘I want to take a little bit of Westmorland back with us.’ Then he handed them in and climbed in with them. A small jolt and cries of goodbye all round and they were on their way.

  Chapter Seven

  They travelled in silence until they reached their first stop at Kendal. Anne had made a half-hearted attempt at conversation, but had met with so little response she had given up. Jane sat and looked out of the window, while Harry, with his beaver hat on his knee, stared straight ahead, as if he could see something written on the velvet squabs above her head.

  It was when he got out to inspect the fresh horses that Anne tackled Jane. ‘Are you going to sulk the whole way back to London, Jane?’

  ‘I am not sulking.’

  ‘You are not talking.’

  ‘There is nothing to say.’

  ‘Jane, my brother loves you to distraction. Can you blame him for wanting to kiss you?’

  ‘He does not love me, he said we would be friends, a disinterested commerce between equals, he called it. And he spoiled it all. Friends do not kiss like that.’

  ‘Oh, so you know that, do you?’

  ‘Of course I do. It was…it was…’ She stopped in confusion.

  ‘A lover’s kiss?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you hated it?’

  She smiled wanly. She had not hated it. She had welcomed it, wanted it to go on, wanted more, much more, and therein lay her dilemma. How could she have been so brazen, so capricious? After telling him as forcefully as she knew how that she would never marry him, how could she have been so weak? Lover’s kiss, was how Anne described it, but Harry was not her lover; she had rejected him. ‘It was wrong.’

  ‘Why? Because you are engaged to Mr Allworthy?’

  ‘I am not engaged to him.’

  ‘As good as.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then be honest, Jane. Did you hate Harry’s touch? Did you struggle to free yourself? Did it make you want to be sick?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ Her face was fiery red. ‘I wish you would not refine upon it so.’

  ‘You have hurt him, Jane.’

  ‘Hurt him? He was not hurt, he was laughing about it. You both were. I heard you.’

  Anne looked puzzled. ‘When?’

  ‘Last night, after I had gone to bed. You went to his room and enjoyed a joke at my expense.’

  ‘Jane, I am sure we were not laughing at you.’ She paused. ‘Oh, I remember now. He said he was going to grovel to you. It seemed to touch a nerve and he laughed, but it was not hilarity, not a happy laugh. Oh, Jane he was certainly not in a laughing mood.’

  Grovel. She managed a wan smile. ‘He does not like to grovel, he told me so.’

  ‘But he was going to do it for you.’

  ‘Why didn’t he, then?’

  ‘When has he had the opportunity? You were late down to breakfast and there was no time afterwards when we were in a flurry of leaving and bidding my aunt and uncle goodbye. And you have hardly been encouraging since.’

  ‘It won’t change anything.’

  Anne smiled. ‘It might make the atmosphere in this carriage a great deal more comfortable.’

  ‘I am sorry, Anne.’

  ‘Say that to Harry when he comes back.’

  ‘I meant sorry for not conversing, not for anything else.’

  ‘Are you being deliberately provoking, Jane? You are as bad as he is. I could happily knock your heads together. Now, I am going into the inn for a few minutes; when I return, I expect to continue this journey in a pleasant atmosphere.’ And with that she opened the door, stepped down and walked across the inn yard. Jane saw her stop and speak briefly to her brother before disappearing inside. She thought about following her, but found herself unable to move; her limbs would not obey her.

  She choked back tears as Harry opened the door and climbed in opposite her. It was a roomy coach, but his knees were almost touching hers and his face, as he leaned forward, was only inches from hers. She turned and gazed out of the window, unwilling to look at him.

  ‘Jane.’ He reached out to take her hand, but changed his mind. ‘Please do not be angry with me.’

  ‘I am not angry.’ It was not anger so much as hurt and confusion, a feeling that she had lost control of a situation she should have been able to manage.

  ‘It looks like anger to me. I am sorry, Jane. I took advantage of the situation in which we found ourselves and that was unforgivable, but I am not sorry I kissed you.’

  She turned to face him, eyes blazing. ‘You call that an apology?’

  ‘Yes, an abject apology for upsetting you, which I never intended. What more do you want?’

  She smiled suddenly. ‘You could try grovelling.’

  He laughed aloud and slipped on to one knee on the dirty floor of the coach, taking one of her hands in both of his. ‘See, I am grovelling. I cannot bear your displeasure. I—’ About to say ‘love you’, he stopped. ‘I want us to be friends again. As we were.’

  ‘Oh, do get up, Harry, you look quite foolish down there and you will dirty your clothes.’

  ‘Not until you say you forgive me.’

  ‘I forgive you.’

  He risked putting his lips to the back of her hand before releasing it and resuming his seat. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I am sorry too. Anne says I have been sulking and making everyone uncomfortable with my silence.’

  ‘I collect you have much to think about.’

  She looked at him sharply and decided not to comment, and then Anne returned to the coach and there was no need. ‘In the inn they are talking about rebellion and insurrection and how dangerous it is
to travel alone,’ she said, as they set off again. ‘Do you think we shall be safe?’

  ‘Oh, I think so,’ Harry told her. ‘We are not mill owners, after all, and it is the mills they are attacking. I am sure travellers going about their lawful business will not be harmed.’

  ‘They tried it before,’ Anne said. ‘If you and Jane had not acted so swiftly, we could all have been murdered.’

  ‘That was the high toby, not discontented homeworkers afraid to lose their livelihood to machines.’

  ‘What is the difference?’ Jane asked. ‘They are still lawless ruffians, bent on destruction, threatening people. I cannot see how offering violence will help to keep them in work.’

  ‘They feel driven to it,’ he said. ‘The machines are of necessity housed in the mills and they require fewer hands to operate them. The handworkers have been accustomed to labouring at home so that everyone in the family can take part and they are proud of what they produce. Their whole way of life is being threatened and they are afraid. Frightened people are bound to react against whatever it is that is frightening them. It is human nature.’

  Jane was thoughtful, not only because she realised Harry was deeply sincere, but because he was right about frightened people reacting to their fear. That was why she had run from him when he kissed her. She had been frightened, frightened of something she did not understand, frightened of her own feelings, frightened of the condemnation of family and friends, because well brought-up young ladies, unmarried young ladies, did not allow themselves to be held tightly in a man’s arms to be kissed.

  If Mr Allworthy had kissed her like that, would her reaction have been the same? She did not know. She sat looking out of the window and tried very hard to imagine him taking her in his arms and kissing her until she was breathless and crying for more, but the image would not come, the warmth refused to flare. He remained a cold and distant figure.

  ‘Is it true that tiny children work in the mills?’ Anne asked her brother.

  ‘Yes, but you see, when they all worked at home, the children joined in the labour; they were used to it. So those parents who have been given work in the mills take their offspring with them. Unfortunately the work is nothing like so congenial as when it was done in the cottages; the children are expected to grub around under the machinery and that is dangerous. There are enlightened mill owners who look after their workers, children included, but they are few. There ought to be legislation.’