“You like Yorkshire, I think, Mrs Caldicott,” was all Mr Harbottle said, but he smiled at her in that lazy way he had, so that his eyes twinkled charmingly, and she could not resist smiling back.
He turned his attention back to Louis, and she watched the two of them as they talked and peered out of the rain-streaked windows of the carriage. Louis was still pale and far too thin for his age, but she thought his face had a little more fullness about it. Or perhaps it was just the animation he so often displayed now. In Southampton, he had been very subdued, unnaturally so, she now realised. Why had she never noticed that before? Because she had been so caught up in her own worries, of course. Her dread of Jude coming home. Her worse dread when he did. The relief when he went away again. She had had little energy to spare for her son. So many hours she had spent with him, yet he had rarely had her full attention. She had encouraged him to read early so that he could amuse himself, and had kept him at home with her when she had retreated into her shell. How often had she packed him off to bed, supposedly to rest, so that she could be alone with her misery? Now, with Jessica to dote on him, and the dowager to be read to, and Mr Harbottle to explain the exact manner of chopping down a tree, or driving a team of horses, suddenly it felt as if he had a whole family around him. As if she had a whole family, and how comforting that was.
When she turned her gaze to Mr Harbottle, she realised with a start just how familiar his features had become. The angular jaw, the lips that curved so readily into a smile, hair the colour of pale honey, his powerful legs… The modern fashion for clinging breeches or pantaloons was not kind to men with spindly thighs or knobbly knees or bow legs, but Mr Harbottle looked very well in such styles… very well indeed, and for all she was in mourning and not in the least on the lookout for a husband, she could appreciate a fine figure in a man.
The narrow streets of York brought much to interest the occupants of the carriage, with many fine churches besides the cathedral, the old city walls and a great many shops everywhere. Davygate was in the heart of the city, the houses being of some antiquity. Mr Harbottle’s house boasted a narrow frontage, and looked far too small to house the number of people already contained within it, let alone visitors, but as soon as the front door was opened by a footman, Nell could see that the interior stretched away into the distance.
Several servants emerged to assist with luggage, as Mr Harbottle jumped down from the carriage, lifted Louis to the ground and then offered his hand to Nell to assist her to alight. She took it, aware of a ripple of pleasure at having a gentleman available for such courtesies, and also having a carriage from which to be handed down. Jude had never been able to afford such a luxury, even in their days of affluence.
As she gazed up at the house — was it four storeys high? — a figure in vivid blue silk trimmed with black ribbons shot out of the front door, heedless of the rain. “Here you are at last! What kept you?”
“No introductions on the street, Meg,” Mr Harbottle said, although he was smiling. “Let Mrs Caldicott get out of this rain first.”
“Of course, of course. Goodness, it is wetter than I had realised. Do come inside, and let me look at you properly.” Then, tucking her arm through Nell’s in the friendliest manner imaginable, she pulled her into the house.
Nell had supposed, when she had given the matter any thought at all, that Mr Harbottle’s sister would be rather like him — possessed of blonde good looks, a pleasingly courteous manner and a pronounced air of fashion. Meg Harbottle had none of those things. She had the dark skin of a mulatto, that was the first surprise. Although Nell knew Miss Harbottle had originated in the West Indies, she had not suspected that her mother’s ancestry was anything other than British. Then there was her gown, which was plain to the point of asceticism. And this bouncing, lively creature was nothing at all like her restrained and gentlemanly brother.
“Oh, I see what you mean, Nat!” Miss Harbottle cried, as soon as Nell had set foot over the threshold. “She is the most beautiful creature in the world. He has told us so much about you, Mrs Caldicott, you cannot imagine. We have all longed to meet you to judge for ourselves, but it is all true, every word.”
Mr Harbottle raised his eyebrows. “Really, Meg! Must you embarrass me so thoroughly by revealing all my private disclosures.”
“You do not mind, do you?” Miss Harbottle said to Nell. “You must be used to gentlemen saying how beautiful you are.”
“No lady ever minds a compliment,” Nell said, smiling.
Mr Harbottle gave a self-conscious little shrug, but said only, “Mrs Caldicott, this is my wild sister, Meg. I trust you will forgive her for her impertinence, since no one has ever managed to rein in her tendency to say whatever comes into her head.”
Miss Harbottle tutted at this. “My brother would have you believe that I have no tact at all, but I assure you I know perfectly well when to hold my tongue. Oh, but you poor thing, still in full mourning. I have set aside my blacks for Cousin William already, except for ribbons and gloves, but you have months yet to suffer.”
“I do not regard it as a suffering to display my loss to the world,” Nell said, a little affronted.
“Oh, but—” Miss Harbottle began, but then, with a quick glance at her brother, said brightly, “Come upstairs, do, and meet the others.”
The others turned out to be four in number — Mr Smethurst, two identical elderly ladies whom Nell had no trouble identifying as the dragons, and a child clutching a doll.
“You know Mr Smethurst, of course,” Miss Harbottle said breezily. “These are the two Macs, Mrs MacMorran and Miss MacKinnon. We call them Mrs Mac and Miss Mac. And this is Miss Henrietta Wilson, Nathan’s ward, or Henny, for short. Everyone, this is Mrs Caldicott. Oh, and Master Louis Caldicott.”
Nell made her curtsies and began her polite greetings, but all the time her eyes were drawn to the girl with the doll. Henrietta Wilson, a previously unmentioned ward of Mr Harbottle’s. She was around ten years of age, and she was everything that Nell had expected Meg to be, with fair hair falling down her back, and features that reminded her forcibly of Mr Harbottle. A ward? Or a natural child? It was a common device, a convenient way of keeping a small mistake within the family, but without public censure. However, she could not ask about it directly.
The afternoon passed pleasantly. Louis and Henny, although each rather suspicious of the other, were easily drawn into a game of spillikins with the two Macs. Nell sat sipping tea, an excellent Pekoe, and talking quietly to Mr Harbottle, while Miss Harbottle and Mr Smethurst joked and teased each other like old friends. Nell had not been in the house five minutes before she realised that Harry Smethurst was deep in love with Meg Harbottle. It was there in the way his eyes followed her all the time, in the way his animation dropped away if she left the room or even turned away from him. He paid her no compliments and bantered with her as if they were brother and sister, but he was sick with longing.
And yet… what was there to stop them? If the lady was not in love, she certainly liked him well enough. But perhaps there were financial difficulties, or his father might be against the match. She could not imagine that Mr Harbottle would raise any objections to his half-sister marrying his best friend, and anyway, she was of age.
When she dressed for dinner, she had a new gown to wear, loaned by Jessica — ‘I ordered far too many, and it would look a vast deal better on you’ — and Quinn arranged her hair in a different style, which was quite the latest thing in London, she assured Nell. There was nothing like a new gown and a stylish new hair arrangement to make a woman feel alive again, she discovered. Or perhaps it was the company. Meg was vivacious, Harry was witty, the two Macs were droll and even Nell was induced to relate a story of one of her partners at Almack’s who had walked like a duck, with his chest forwards and his rear rather more rearwards than was customary, owing to some misfortune with his corsets. Meg roared with laughter.
“Why, Mrs Caldicott, you are not at all the serene lady Nat descri
bed. You are quite wicked!”
And Nell was so at ease that she answered at once, “So I am, very wicked indeed.” Then she saw Louis watching her, eyes wide, unsure of her. “I am so wicked that I wake little boys at night to make them cry and then—”
“Then?” he whispered, his wide eyes suggesting he was not quite sure how the sentence would end.
“Then I tickle them and tickle them until they scream for mercy.” His face dissolved into smiles. “Are you going to finish that syllabub, young man, because it is time you were away to your bed.”
Later, Nell played while Meg sang, and then Meg played alone. She was a little careless with the notes, but the performance was so spirited that no one could imagine anything wanting. Harry watched her in open admiration. The two Macs, working side by side on their tatting, listened respectfully. And Nathan…
As he had all evening, Nathan watched Nell, a little smile on his lips, his eyes warm with affection. Yes, affection, she decided. Nothing more than that. He was a warm-hearted man whose goodwill spilt over onto everyone around him, including her. Such a kind, open-handed man! She could never thank him enough for all his generosity. Yet his whole family was the same. Such lovely people.
She wondered what Jessica and the dowager were engaged in that evening. Jessica bent over her embroidery, no doubt, calling for extra candles as the evening light dimmed. The dowager would be at the instrument, her fingers running expertly over the keys.
Then her thoughts turned to Southampton. What would Maria be doing now? Preparing supper, perhaps, for some of Mr Lloyd’s gentleman friends. The scheme was going well, according to the letters. Nell could picture her in the kitchen with Lucy and Jane, the three of them weaving this way and that about the room in a domestic version of the cotillion, only holding pans and bowls instead of fans and reticules. And Tilda… she had forgotten Tilda. She would be in the scullery. Becky and Dick would be preparing the dining room. She had not thought a great deal about any of them for an age, but now she had an urge to rush away and write to Maria, a long, newsy letter instead of the formal little notes she had sent so far. And James. She should write again to James, with more details of her situation. Had he come to some arrangement with Julia yet? Now that she thought of it, she burned to know. Why had she not wondered long since?
She had been too wrapped up in herself, drowning in her own misery. Everything else had no substance, faded and far away. Like the memory of Jude. Faded like an old tapestry.
Once, a lifetime ago, when Nell had been forbidden from seeing Jude and was sent to her room in disgrace, he had climbed over the wall into the grounds of Daveney Hall and stood, a lonely figure, on the edge of the shrubbery. For hours he stayed there watching her window as the summer sun sank slowly down the sky. He never moved an inch, but gradually, oh so slowly, the colours leached away from him until he grew shadowy and grey, and then utterly dark, so dark that not all her straining could make him out. And then she had wept, for he was gone from her life, gone for ever, faded away to nothingness by the implacably setting sun.
But then, the miracle had happened. The moon had risen and there he still was, a little paler, a little colourless but still her own Jude. No darkness could take him from her. His memory would fade, but he would never leave her. She would always have his love.
Or so she had believed, then. For years she had believed it. Even after the disaster, she had told herself that he still loved her, despite everything… that he was still her own beloved Jude. How many times had he told her so, in his repentant, tearful moments? But he had betrayed her. He was Judas indeed, for he had lied to her and mistreated her, he had hurt her with words and fists until she was consumed with anguish and pain, and that was not love.
She had learnt not to weep, not to argue, not to disobey. She had learnt not to cry out. She had survived by freezing her heart. But now, the spring sunshine was melting the icicles that imprisoned her. For the first time in years, she felt an interest in someone other than herself. She cared about people again. Her heart was thawing at last.
19: Intimacy (June)
Nathan had dismissed his valet and was ready for bed, but not yet under the covers. How could he possibly sleep on such a night? Instead, he sat beside the open window, the scent of roses and jasmine rising up from their tiny patch of garden far below, listening to the night sounds of the town. From the streets came the sounds of revellers passing by or the occasional rumble of a carriage, and from open windows he caught distant threads of music or bursts of laughter. Everyone was happy this night, and Nathan most of all.
A tap on the door was instantly followed by a mop of dark curls and Meg’s beaming face. “I knew you would not be in bed yet. May I come in?”
Since she instantly bustled in and shut the door firmly behind her, he merely laughed. He was used to Meg’s ways.
“Well, you were quite wrong about her, you know,” she said, heaving his dressing chair nearer to his seat, and arranging the skirts of her night robe daintily about her ankles as she sat.
“In what way was I wrong? She is beautiful…”
“True.”
“… and ladylike…”
“Indeed.”
“… and perfectly composed on every occasion.”
“Oh yes! But you did not tell me she has such a wicked sense of humour. She will fit in perfectly with this family. When am I to wish you joy?”
He heaved a dramatic sigh. “You are as bad as Harry. He is forever wanting to wish me joy, too. Have I not explained a hundred times that she has no desire for another husband, and who can wonder at it, after the last one? Nor do I want to risk my heart again, Meg.”
“Your heart was lost to her long ago, if you want my opinion…”
“Which I do not.”
“…and you must marry, Nathan, you absolutely must. Whatever will happen to Papa’s fortune if you have no heir?”
“You and Henny will be very rich women one day, that is what will happen. Now do not tease me about Mrs Caldicott, Meg, or I shall be obliged to enquire about Harry, and you know how that will end.”
Her face fell. “I do know,” she said softly, “and I wish you would not make a fuss about it, Nathan. Harry must decide what is best for himself, and I would not make him a good wife, you know that. I am quite resigned to it. All I wish is that—”
Nathan reached out and stroked her cheek gently. “What do you wish, sister dear?”
She jumped to her feet, wrapping her arms about herself. “That he would just get on and do it! Find himself a charming little society wife who will do the pretty to his political comrades and give him a quiver full of little Harrys.”
“Why could you not be that charming society wife?” Nathan said. “That is the part I cannot understand. Who is better suited to be a political hostess than you?”
“Me? A mulatto, and one, moreover, who says the first thing that comes into her head? It would be a disaster. I should only be a hindrance to his advancement, and he knows it, or he would have married me long since. But I am determined not to regret him. If he does not love me well enough to set the world at naught for me, then I am well rid of him, say I. He will not break my heart, you may depend upon it.”
And so saying, she turned in a swirl of silk and strode out of the room.
~~~~~
Sunday brought a walk to the Minster through the rain, a long sermon made all the more tedious by sitting in wet clothes, followed by another rainy walk home. There was much grumbling from some of the company, but Nathan was too happy to mind a little rain. Who cared tuppence for rain when there was Nell to walk beside and to talk to and to watch surreptitiously?
“It is a fine building — very fine indeed,” she said when pressed to give an opinion, “but I am not convinced the sermon was worth journeying all the way from Southampton to hear.”
They were all glad to dry off over breakfast. Since the rain was relentless, they eschewed the Eucharist in favour of reading sermons. Harry and M
eg took it in turns to read, while the two Macs and the children listened quietly.
Nell attempted to sketch the Minster while it was fresh in her mind, an enterprise soon abandoned as too difficult. “I have no eye for architecture,” she said sadly.
As she slipped the sketchbook back into its bag, Nathan glimpsed a number of other sketches tucked away. “May I look?” he said.
“Of course. Most of them are years old, for I draw very little now.”
Faces. They were almost all faces, mainly children. “Will you tell me who all these people are? Oh, this is Louis, is it not?”
“These here are all Louis. That one is my brother Jack as a baby. Mama and Papa. More of Louis. Oh, this is Daveney Hall… and this. Louis again.”
“And this one?” he said gently, for he guessed the answer.
“That is Jude. I drew it after his death, for remembrance. He would never sit for me when he was alive. When we first married, he had me sit for a cameo, so that he could take it with him on his voyages. He was supposed to sit for one too, for me to keep, but he never did. So I drew a picture of him as I remembered him.”
“He was a fine, handsome fellow,” Nathan said, but inside he raged to look at the smiling, happy face of the man who had hurt her. She nodded, but said nothing and he could not read her face. To fill the silence, he said, “I suppose the cameo of you is at the bottom of the English Channel now.”
“No, it was in his waistcoat pocket when they found him. He always carried it there, next to his heart, so he said.” There was a brittle note to her voice as she spoke. “His clothes were sent back to me, with everything from his pockets. This is his ring, you see? And the cameo.”
She wore the ring on a chain around her neck, invisible under her high-necked gown. He gave it a cursory glance, but it was not of any artistic merit, being plain gold embossed with some kind of emblem — a bag, perhaps. He turned to the cameo she produced from her reticule. She kept it in a tiny velvet pouch to preserve its delicate beauty, and it was undoubtedly worth preserving. There she was to the life, captured in miniature in two square inches of painstakingly carved ivory. It was beautiful, but he could not see it without thinking of the man who sentimentally carried his wife’s image next to his heart when he was away and then came home and beat the living woman black and blue.
The Widow (Silver Linings Mysteries Book 1) Page 19