The Hemingford Scandal

by Mary Nichols

  ‘Yes, I am sure he did. He is excessively correct in everything he does.’

  ‘How could I forget him? Is he tall or short, fat or thin? Is he handsome? Is he rich? Why, why, will it not come back to me?’ The questions went on and on with Anne endeavouring to answer them without bias, but Jane soon realised how reluctant her friend was. ‘Is there something wrong with him?’

  Anne gave a bitter laugh. ‘Nothing at all, he is handsome, wealthy and in every way eligible, except he is not right for you and you must have realised that yourself or you would not have run away from him.’

  ‘Is that what I was doing?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Why? Why didn’t I simply say no?’

  Anne shrugged. ‘Only you know that.’

  ‘You do not like Mr Allworthy, do you?’

  ‘What has my liking or not liking him got to do with your loss of memory?’

  ‘What does Harry say about it all?’

  ‘You had better ask him.’

  ‘Perhaps I will. But how am I to answer this letter?’

  Anne smiled. ‘Leave it until you feel stronger. Your memory may return soon and then you will know what to say.’

  Jane tired very easily and the effort of thinking about it exhausted her. And Anne was probably right; her memory would come back and she would have the answer to all her questions. But if she had received Mr Allworthy’s proposal with pleasure, had spent some time as his guest, how could she erase him from her mind so completely? Her headache returned as she puzzled over it and the only relief she had was in a kind of apathy, putting it aside until she felt able to deal with it.

  It was September before the doctor pronounced Jane fit enough to travel. He decided to leave the splint on for the journey, but advised them to call in a doctor as soon as they arrived at Sutton Park who would take it off; then she could build up her strength and slowly learn to walk again. The cuts and bruises had all healed, though there was a small scar on her forearm and another down the side of her face, which she covered by bringing her hair forward over her brow.

  ‘It is nothing, nothing at all,’ Harry had assured her when she had called for a looking glass and seen herself for the first time. ‘You are no less beautiful.’

  He hired the most comfortable carriage he could find, one wide enough for her to lie with her leg stretched out. It had to be paid for with a promissory note, but he would worry about the money later. Giles had gone home on the stage as soon as his knee healed and so they hired a driver and postilion as well as the coach and horses; Harry was not going to take any more risks with his precious burden.

  On the morning of their departure, he carried her out to the coach and put her carefully on the seat with her broken leg lying along it and her back and head supported by soft cushions. He climbed in beside Anne on the facing seat, the step was put up and the door shut and the driver given strict instructions to go slowly, especially where the ground was uneven or the potholes more than usually deep. Luckily the weather was warm and dry. Jane was so pleased to be feeling better and away from the unpleasant smell of the hospital, that her spirits revived almost at once.

  The road from Leeds to Doncaster was a good one and they bowled along smoothly, taking three hours over a journey which the mail did in half the time. When they stopped for refreshment, Harry picked Jane up and carried her tenderly to a table in the dining room. His own injury seemed not to inconvenience him and when she asked him if she was perhaps too heavy for him to carry, he laughingly said she was as light as thistledown.

  ‘Do you want to stay and rest?’ he asked her when they had finished their meal. ‘If you are too tired to go on, we could rack up here…’

  ‘No, I am perfectly comfortable in the coach.’

  And so they went on: Doncaster to Worksop, then to Ollerton and Newark and on to Sleaford, which they reached in the early evening. Jane was very tired by then and her leg was aching in spite of Harry’s care, but, because they were so near their destination and there were several hours of daylight still left, she would not countenance stopping. They rolled through the gates of Sutton Park at nine o’clock.

  By now Jane was nearly fainting with pain and exhaustion and she was put straight to bed by the old nurse who had looked after Harry and Anne from the time they were born until they no longer needed her. Now pensioned off, she remained in the house passing her time reading, sewing and reminiscing. Her name was Elizabeth Harris, but no one ever called her by it. She was known to one and all as Nurse. ‘I will look after her,’ she told Harry and Anne. ‘You need to rest yourselves. You look done up, both of you.’

  It was the true beginning of Jane’s recovery. She slept most of the following day, but the day after that she was alert and impatient to be up and about. The local doctor came and examined her, removing the splint from her leg, saying she should try a little gentle exercise before attempting to walk on it, but there was no reason to stay in bed.

  Looking down at her leg after the doctor had gone, she was shocked; it looked so thin and wasted. Would she ever walk again? Run or dance? Would she ride? The thought that she might never enjoy her favourite pastime ever again made her unbearably miserable. Harry and Anne had been wonderful to her and she was very grateful, but they had been friends a long time and would not desert her in time of need. But surely they would soon lose patience with her?

  And there was Mr Allworthy, whom she still could not remember. Before they left Leeds, she had received another letter from him, which she asked Anne to acknowledge on her behalf, saying she was not yet well enough to write herself. She did not know what to say to him. She did not remember what he looked like, had no recollection of him proposing to her, but how could she tell him that? Anne and Harry both told her not to worry about it; it would all come back to her in time. In the meantime, she must concentrate on getting well.

  She still needed to be carried about, a task Harry did willingly. Nurse washed and dressed her and one of the maids brought her breakfast, then Harry was allowed in to take her to the morning room, a sunny room at the back of the house with long windows that looked out on to the garden. He sat her down carefully, putting a cushion at her back and wrapping a blanket about her legs. He did it tenderly and unselfconsciously, though they both knew he ought not to be touching her in that intimate way. They were, after all, unmarried and not even promised to each other. He wished it were otherwise.

  ‘Harry, you do not have to stay by me,’ she said when he drew up a chair to sit beside her. ‘You must have something else to do, walking or riding or attending to the estate.’

  ‘I can walk or ride at any time and Grandfather has not yet entrusted me with the running of the estate. Besides, I prefer to be with you.’

  ‘But I believe we quarrelled.’

  He looked sharply at her, wondering if her memory was returning. ‘Quarrel with you, my dear? Never!’

  ‘But something happened, I know it did. I have a mental picture. It is hazy, but I see you in uniform and we are both angry…’

  ‘It was a long time ago. Over two years. Done and dusted. Do not refine upon it.’

  ‘I thought it could not have been recent, because in my mind we were so young.’

  ‘We were. Too young. But one can mature a great deal in two years, do you not think?’

  ‘Oh, indeed I do. So, are you going to tell me what it was all about?’

  ‘Must I? It is not an episode of which I am proud and you did say you forgave me.’

  ‘I wish I could remember, Harry. I have an idea that I was feeling very muddled. Or is it simply that I am muddled now? I feel like a stranger in my own body.’

  ‘It will pass and no doubt you will recall everything.’

  ‘I do remember some things, mostly incidents from my childhood. Mama and Papa when we lived near here, you and Anne when we were children and into dreadful mischief, Mama’s death and moving to London. But nothing recent, nothing of the last few weeks, and in that time I am s
upposed to have met a man called Donald Allworthy. Anne tells me I have even visited his home. How can I have forgotten that?’

  ‘The mind is a funny thing. Perhaps you do not want to remember.’

  ‘Why not?’

  He shrugged. ‘I do not know.’

  ‘Anne said I was running away.’

  ‘Were you?’

  ‘I do not remember.’ She paused. ‘Tell me what it is I have forgotten, please. I asked Anne, but she seemed reluctant to say more than I had received an offer of marriage and was considering it.’

  ‘That is my understanding too.’

  ‘But you and I were engaged, Harry.’

  ‘Yes, but we decided we should not suit.’

  ‘Did we?’ She remembered something of the sort; it must have been that quarrel. It was coming back to her slowly. ‘What have you been doing since then?’

  He told her about enlisting and being wounded and that brought another image flashing into her brain, one which brought the colour rushing to her cheeks: a picture of him naked, his muscular body glistening with drops of water, one leg strong and supple, the other badly scarred. When had she seen that?

  He noticed her heightened colour and wondered what had caused it. ‘I can no longer fight, so I had an idea to build an improved rifle, safer and more reliable. I postponed doing anything about it because Anne wanted me to accompany you both to Ambleside.’ He paused, then added quickly, ‘Do not think I did not want to, I did, very much.’

  ‘And Mr Allworthy? When did I meet him?’

  ‘Earlier this year, I believe. Before I returned from the Peninsula.’

  ‘Have you met him?’

  ‘Briefly.’

  ‘What did you think of him?’

  ‘You surely do not expect me to answer that,’ he said sharply. ‘I could not give you an unbiased opinion.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Jane, my dearest girl, you must know I still love you, never stopped loving you.’

  ‘Oh.’ She looked sideways at him, her eyes showing a glint of the humour she had always had before the accident. ‘Even when we quarrelled?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘I do not understand. Are you saying it was my fault?’

  ‘No, it was entirely mine. But, as you said, a great deal can happen in two years and in that time we both went our separate ways.’

  Did that mean she no longer loved him? Had she ever truly loved him? But she knew she had and knew she still did. ‘But we are together now.’

  ‘Yes. Fate. The accident.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ She was not sure she did see. Harry and Anne were looking after her at their home, tending her with loving care, and yet she had entertained a proposal of marriage from a stranger. Until she remembered him, knew what he looked like, the kind of man he was, he would remain a stranger. It was all such a muddle and worrying about it, gnawing at it like a dog with a bone, was making her head ache.

  She could see Anne and her grandfather walking towards them up the garden path. Anne was carrying a trug full of late roses that she had just cut. The Earl was using a stick, but he was still sprightly for his age. When he saw Jane he raised the hand holding the stick, then spoke to Anne and a minute or two later they came into the room.

  ‘Jane, it has been a long time,’ the old man greeted her. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Recovering, my lord. I thank you for allowing me to come here to recuperate. I always loved Sutton Park.’

  ‘You are very welcome.’ He sank into a chair, his hands on the knob of his cane, while Anne kissed Jane’s cheek and sat on a nearby sofa. ‘I hope that rakeshame of a grandson of mine is looking after you.’

  ‘Indeed, he is.’

  ‘Anne tells me you have lost all remembrance of the accident.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sometimes it happens, you know—when something is too terrible to remember, the mind hides it away. Best forgotten. Cannot give you nightmares then, can it?’

  ‘No, my lord.’

  He stood up again. ‘Stay as long as you need to,’ he said gruffly. ‘You might keep that renegade here a little longer. It’s about time he learned how to be a gentleman.’

  He stumped away. Anne smiled at Jane. ‘He is secretly very pleased to have us all here, you know. I think he hopes you will help to change Harry’s mind about going into the gunmaking business.’

  ‘I would not dream of doing that, even if I could. It is plainly very important to him.’

  Anne looked closely at her. ‘How are you today?’

  ‘Tired. I seem always to be tired, though I have done nothing. But I must bestir myself and try a little exercise.’

  ‘Not today,’ Harry said firmly. ‘I think I should take you back to your room to rest. Tomorrow, if all goes well, I shall let you try and take a few steps.’

  It was a frightening prospect. The leg might have mended, but it still looked a little misshapen and it was so thin, the muscles wasted to nothing. But she was determined to walk again, and not only walk, but ride. Oh, for the joy of feeling a horse beneath her and the wind on her face; for that, she would make herself strong again.

  The next morning, she took six steps across the drawing room floor, supported by Harry. With his arm about her waist she felt safe, able to do as he asked and put one foot in front of the other, but as soon as he showed signs of letting her go, she cried out and clung to him. He had endless patience and gradually she became more adventurous. At first it was only about the house: the morning room, the drawing room, the library to look for something to read, but a week later, she was walking with the aid of a stick, even going up and down the steps that led from the terrace to the garden. But she limped.

  ‘A pair of lame ducks, we are,’ Harry teased, when she commented on it, angry with herself for not doing better. ‘Matching jugs.’

  ‘But you have mastered the art of walking with a limp. It hardly shows. And you can ride as well as you ever did.’

  ‘And you will too. Be patient. In any case, your lopsided gait adds to your charm.’

  She laughed. ‘Why are you so good to me, Harry?’

  ‘Because I love you,’ he said simply.

  She sat down on a garden bench to rest. The leaves on the trees of the park were turning colour, red, gold and yellow; some of them had been blown down and were piled in little heaps, but the air was still warm enough to enjoy the sunshine out of doors. ‘It was me who broke off our engagement, wasn’t it?’ she said slowly. ‘I sent you away.’

  He sat down beside her. ‘I came back.’

  ‘But too late, I think.’

  ‘It is never too late.’ He took her hand and raised it to his lips.

  She smiled wanly. She had had several more letters from Mr Allworthy, all more or less in the same vein as the first, and wanting to know when he could come and fetch her home. She had begun answering them herself, but he did not seem to understand about her impaired memory, convinced that she would know him and love him again as soon as she saw him. ‘There is unfinished business…’

  ‘You mean Allworthy?’

  ‘I must see him. As soon as I am strong enough, I must continue my journey home.’ What would she make of him? What would he make of her? She was not the same girl who had left him two months before. She was scarred, and who would want to marry her with one leg shorter than the other? And did she even know if the battering her body had received had impaired her ability to have children? But she did not have to wait to return to London.

  Donald arrived a week later, presenting himself to the Earl very correctly before asking if he might speak to Jane.

  She was resting in her room when Anne came to tell her he was in the drawing room with the Earl. ‘You do not have to see him,’ she said when she saw the alarm in Jane’s eyes. ‘He gave no warning of his arrival, it would be easy to send him away.’

  ‘But that would be impolite and cowardly. Please tell him I shall join him directly, then do you think you could come back and
help me to tidy myself?’

  ‘Of course.’ She looked at Jane’s blue sarcenet gown, with its trimming of plum-coloured braid and smiled. ‘But you look perfectly presentable to me.’

  She disappeared and Jane hobbled over to sit before the mirror to brush her hair. But her hands were shaking and she could hardly breathe for the rapid thumping of her heart. She had to go down to meet a man to whom she was as good as promised in marriage, his letters had implied that, and yet she could not even remember what he looked like. The days of arranged marriages were no longer as prevalent as they had been, but they still happened, especially among the aristocracy. Girls were still being dragged unwillingly up the aisle to make their marriage vows to virtual strangers. They must feel as she did now, frightened and apprehensive, worse, she supposed, because they had no choice and she did; no one was forcing her. But if there had been no pressure, no coercion, then surely it meant it was something she wanted? If only, if only, she could remember.

  When Anne returned she was sitting perfectly still, staring at her reflection, the brush idle in her hand. Anne took it from her and began stroking it down her chestnut tresses, being very careful to avoid the spot where the egg-sized lump had been. The doctor had had to cut some of the hair away and though it had started to grow again, it was short and spiky. ‘If you wear it loose and just tie it back with a ribbon, it will hide where it has been cut,’ Anne said.

  ‘Do what you can,’ Jane said. ‘He will have to take me as I am, won’t he?’

  Anne carefully brushed it to the back of her neck and secured it with a ribbon, then pulled a curl or two out to cover the scar on her face. ‘There! Will that do?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ As she finished speaking there was a knock on the door, which made her jump. Her instant thought was that she had taken so long her visitor had come to find her and she began to shake uncontrollably.

  ‘It’s only Harry come to carry you down,’ Anne said, opening the door to admit her brother.