Proud Mary

by Lucinda Brant

  “Don’t talk rot, Mary!” he growled, the words out of his mouth before he had time to temper his anger. “I won’t allow you to demean yourself, and me, or our feelings. I am not a beast, and you are not a wanton. Far from it. My intentions towards you have always been honorable. I admit that I had the bad manners to act the over-eager schoolboy and kiss you. But again, to be truthful, I was never more relieved when your cousin materialized as the resident ghost when he did. I told you I want you—I do. I want you in every way. I want to kiss you, for us to make love, but most of all I want—”

  “You are quick to tell me what it is you want, Mr. Bryce,” Mary interrupted, hoping indignation would silence him once and for all. “You kiss me, tell me you wish to make love with me, that you are sincere in your feelings, but you have not once asked what it is I want.”

  “I was so eager to let you know the sincerity of my feelings that I did not stop to think…” Christopher replied, instantly contrite. “Forgive me. More than anything, I want to know what it is you want.”

  Mary’s anger instantly deflated because she was at a loss to answer her own question. She blinked her bafflement and he was forced to suppress a smile, though he did say with a hint of mischief,

  “Please, take your time…”

  That did rile her to say curtly, “As no member of my family, and certainly not my husband, has ever asked me what I want, you will have to forgive me if I am at a loss to give you an immediate response. But there is one thing I do know, Mr. Bryce, and that is you greatly unsettle me. So much so that I do not want to-to feel the way you make me feel. It puzzles and-and frightens me, and it is—”

  Christopher cocked his head and folded his arms.

  “And how do I make you feel, Mary?”

  “I just told you! I don’t know! I am-I am—confounded. You confound me! And I dare not dwell on my feelings, whatever they may be. Feelings do not lead anywhere. It is a path I cannot take—”

  “But if we took that path together?”

  Mary stared up at him, forlorn. “Oh, but don’t you see? That is impossible. Impossible.”

  “Nothing is impossible when two people are in love.”

  “In love…?” Mary blinked, and for some inexplicable reason she was overwhelmed with sadness. Tears welled up but she refused to let them fall. Her voice was a hoarse whisper. “You cannot say that. You do not know that.”

  “For my own part, yes, I do,” he replied calmly, though his throat burned and he felt the need to swallow hard. “I am very sure I fell in love with you at first sight. No one was more surprised than I, at my age, to be struck down in this way. But it was not something I could control. And every day since has only strengthened that conviction, and my love for you. I never thought I would ever have the opportunity to tell you my feelings, because you were married. And I did not think it appropriate, or want to appear too eager, and tell you in the first year of your widowhood. But now, almost two years since Sir Gerald’s death I hope that we—”

  “Please. Please. Say no more!”

  Christopher turned tack when she quickly wiped tears from her eyes and would not look at him.

  “But surely you knew my feelings?”

  Mary shook her head vigorously, eyes downcast. She did not know, but she had always hoped that it was true. And if she were honest with herself, she had dreamed of hearing his declaration. So why now that he had told her he loved her was she not ecstatic, but made utterly miserable? Was it because no one had ever confessed to loving her? Was it because she loved him in return but could never tell him so because their disparate situations meant they could never walk together that same path he spoke of? It was all too overwhelming and her head began to ache.

  “My lady? Mary?” When she looked up at him and he was sure he had her attention, he took a step closer and said with a soft smile, “Please do not concern yourself further. I will not press you anymore tonight. You have had enough of an emotional upheaval, what with your cousin literally returning from the dead. I understand. I did the same thing myself to my parents—”

  “You—you did?” Mary asked, temporarily emerging from her befuddlement.

  “Returning after a long absence abroad requires adjustment by all parties,” he replied without answering her question directly. “You both need time to become reacquainted. But I dare hope that in the not-too-distant future I may approach you again, and ask, most humbly, that if your feelings do align with mine, we might find a way to—”

  “My lady?”

  It was the housekeeper.

  Startled, the couple sprung back from each other and looked away, first to the floor and then up and around, and finally turned to the servant door.

  Mrs. Keble lingered just inside the doorway, Luke at her back. A secretive, almost knowing smile lifted the corners of her mouth. Christopher had no idea how long they had been standing there, and if they had been overheard. But when Mary brushed past him on a deep intake of breath and the housekeeper shot him a look of smug triumph, he knew she had had a box seat to his feelings.

  “Oh! Thank goodness you’re here, Mrs. Keble,” Mary said, clearing her throat. “My cousin has just arrived in the night, and without his valet and baggage, so we must find him something to wear in the meantime. This trunk contains Sir Gerald’s wedding clothes and I’m sure they would do until such time…”

  Christopher stopped listening, ears humming with embarrassment and lost opportunity as he returned to the task of removing one key and substituting another before finally managing to open the trunk containing clothes that had not seen the light of day or night for ten years. He then moved aside so the two women could carefully unpack the trunk’s contents. Mrs. Keble had brought with her the clothing ledger and set to marking off the clothes Mary selected for her cousin to wear. So it was only within a matter of minutes the equilibrium of the house returned to everyday normality. It was as if there had never been talk of a ghost, Christopher and Mary had never shared a kiss, and he had not confessed his feelings.

  He heard without deciphering the words Lady Mary and Mrs. Keble’s conversation about the preparations necessary for the arrival of further guests in the coming days. Bedchambers long since shut up needed airing, mattresses and rugs beaten, the dust wiped away, the furniture polished, and new tapers put in all the sconces. Chimney flues would need checking, the silver plate unlocked, and the best Sevres dinner set unpacked and used for the duration of the guests’ stay.

  As Abbeywood would be host to her cousin and Lord Shrewsbury was due any day, hired help would be required to ensure the comforts these noblemen and their entourage were used to. Lady Mary suggested several names of girls in the village who could be brought in to help in the kitchens and laundry. Christopher nodded his agreement. Mrs. Keble added that perhaps now was not the best time to dismiss the Blandfords, Old Jack, and young Tanner, who knew their respective positions within the household well, and would not need further instruction. Indeed Blandford could take on the role of butler for he had been underbutler in Sir Gerald’s day. Lady Mary said Mrs. Keble’s suggestion was an excellent one. Both women then turned to the Squire to have his assent. Christopher gave it without question or argument. He then excused himself and went off to the steward’s room at the back of the house, where he lay down on the bed, exhausted. But he did not sleep.

  TWELVE

  THE VIEW of Brycecomb Hall from the ridge never failed to quiet Christopher’s pulse and make him content. The Jacobean mansion of Guiting Yellow stone sat proud in manicured parkland that nestled at the foot of the escarpment. Undulating farmland crisscrossed with old hedgerows and dry stone walls stretched out beyond the estate’s imposing gatehouse, dotted with woolly sheep, farms with the necessary cidermill house, and coppices of oak, maple, ash, elm, and beech. Slicing through this patchwork and running along one side of the estate’s high dry stone walls was a meandering river with water as clear as polished glass. Weavers’ stone cottages lined one side of the bank; behind t
hem on the slope of the hill brightly-colored cloth on tenterhooks dried in the sun. A newly-built cloth mill, one of three in the district, and an old flour mill utilized the river’s energy to drive large waterwheels, and all were owned by the enterprising squire of Brycecomb Hall.

  Just on sunrise, when the mist still hung low to the valley floor, blanketing this magical landscape, only the turrets of Brycecomb Hall were visible above the clouds. Their finials pinpricked the morning sky, serving as a landlocked beacon that allowed travelers by horse and on foot to find their way. Christopher needed no such beacon, for the countryside was as familiar to him as the creases in his palms.

  The estate had been home to Bryces since Henry Tudor’s time, and the house with its mullioned windows, ornate gables, and fanciful turrets, built in the time of the first King Charles, was testament to the family’s skill in surviving political upheaval, and shrewd management as squires of a thriving estate. Christopher had been born here, and it was here that he wished to spend the rest of his earthly existence.

  He had grown up in the Jacobean manor house an only child of elderly parents, attending the local Blue Coat school with other lads from the village and surrounding farms considered bright enough to learn a little Greek and Latin with their reading, writing, and arithmetic. And then, against his wishes, he was sent faraway to Harrow, to mix with the sons of gentlemen. What made those years bearable was knowing he could return home at the end of each term. His parents wished him to go on to university, to round off his education as a gentleman, but all he ever wanted to do was learn estate management from his father, so that when the day came for him to follow in his footsteps, he would be the sort of squire to make his father proud. He never wanted to leave the vale again.

  And then when Christopher was eighteen the local magistrate for this picturesque pocket of the Cotswolds, a baronet, cousin of a duke and a distant relation of his father, Sir George Cavendish, died. His death changed Christopher’s life forever.

  Sir George was not only a distant cousin of Squire Bryce, he was also his neighbor. The largest landowner in the district, his modestly-named estate of Abbeywood Farm shared a river boundary with Bryce lands on the valley floor.

  Christopher had met Sir George upon several occasions, knew he had a couple of sons about his own age who lived mostly in London, and that he was on his third marriage to a lady who preferred London as well. But the Baronet enjoyed country life. Despite the greater part of his time being spent in far-off London, he never missed the annual Brycecomb shoot.

  When Christopher was fifteen, Sir George invited the Bryce family to spend a few days at Abbeywood Farm. The Baronet had guests all the way from London to stay for a fortnight-long house party. His family remained in London, possibly because he had brought along his latest mistress. At first, Christopher’s mother refused to accept the invitation. She was not about to spend time with such an immoral lot! Christopher’s father told her she must, and to ignore these Londoners and their ways. They had to think of “the boy” and his future. His parents had a heated argument, their first.

  His mother was miserable the entire visit, while his father did his best to be sociable and compensated for his wife’s gloominess by his over-eagerness to please his host. At dinner one evening Sir George made a point of singling out “the boy”. It wasn’t until his father nudged him that Christopher realized Sir George was referring to him. Sir George told him to get to his feet so everyone could take a good look at him. Reluctantly, Christopher did so and every dinner conversation stopped. Over the tops of pleated fans, and peering through raised quizzing glasses, the diners looked Christopher over as Sir George encouraged everyone to agree with him that “the boy” had grown into a fine lad, and done his parents proud.

  Unused to such unwanted attention, and embarrassed by it, Christopher resumed his seat without leave to do so and returned to eating what was on his plate. His father nudged him again, apologizing to Sir George, but the Baronet waved away “the boy’s” lack of manners, and ordered everyone to eat up. With dinner conversations picking up where they had left off, Christopher dared to look up from his plate, and noticed for the first time a fashionable London lady in blue silks seated directly opposite. He wasn’t sure what it was about her that made him stare. She was beautiful, but not in the first flush of youth, and she was far too decorated with paint and silks to be thought anything but gaudy by a lad brought up around the scrubbed, fresh-faced females of the vale, whose Sunday-best gowns wouldn’t be considered adequate for even the lowliest servant in this London lady’s household. But Christopher had an innate sense that there was something special about her. He knew he was staring, but he could not help it. She smiled at him. He smiled back. But then her eyes filled with tears and he instantly dropped his gaze, awkward and ill at ease. He did not look her way again.

  Much later, while the guests played cards, he wandered off and found himself in a gallery that had up on its walls paintings of illustrious Cavendish ancestors. Here he stumbled upon his mother and the fashionable London lady in heated argument. His mother was shaking her head. The fashionable London lady was pleading with her, gloved fingers tightly about the closed sticks of a fan. She was greatly upset. But his mother remained resolute. He had never seen her so determined and unyielding, and this to a woman who was clearly her social superior, and thus should be obeyed. He stood there, hesitating between going forward and running away. And then the two women sensed a presence, looked up, and saw him. The London lady’s face lit up. She smiled. Grabbing a handful of her rich petticoats, she bustled forward to meet him. But his mother quickly had her by the arm, and stopped her. Another argument ensued. Embarrassed to witness such an emotional scene, Christopher fled.

  His mother never mentioned the episode or the London lady again, and there were no further visits to Abbeywood Farm. He saw Sir George again, at the hunt, and in the village, but it was only a handful of times before the Baronet’s death. He bequeathed Christopher the astounding sum of five thousand pounds. The bequest was a recent codicil to his will. Christopher was mystified, so were Sir George’s heirs. Christopher’s parents and his lawyers were not. With the codicil was a letter addressed to a Cavendish Bryce from Sir George. The letter contained life-altering news.

  Christopher refused to believe the letter’s contents. But his father confirmed it was true, and his mother wept. Christopher was not Christopher Bryce, son of Henry Christopher and Sophie Ellen Bryce, but Cavendish Bryce, natural son of Sir George Cavendish and the fashionable titled London lady who had sat across from him at dinner and with whom his mother had argued all those years ago. He now learned that she was also his mother’s younger sister.

  Christopher (he would not be known by his birth name) was told his natural mother was married to a titled naval officer. She conceived Sir George’s child while her husband the Admiral Lord was at sea. This consequence meant there was no chance of passing the child off as belonging to her husband. To avoid scandal she spent the last months of her pregnancy, and gave birth to her baby, in the wilds of the Cotswolds, at the home of her sister Sophie and brother-in-law Henry.

  Polite Society was none the wiser that her adultery had born rotten fruit. But Sir George was well aware he had a bastard son and pleased to have the boy growing up so near to his estate. Christopher’s natural mother suckled her infant son for three months, then was compelled to give him up for good and return to London and her life there. Her understanding but obdurate husband, who knew all about his wife’s adultery and the birth, was back from his tour of duty and was waiting to welcome her home.

  Christopher’s parents did their best to explain he was more fortunate than most by-blows. His aunt and uncle loved him as their own, and had adopted him. He would inherit Brycecomb Hall and be Squire Bryce. Sir George had taken an interest in his welfare and upon his death had made him a rich man. What more could he ask for, they wondered?

  But what boy of eighteen who grows up thinking one thing only to be to
ld another, who idolized the man he believed to be his father, and who loved the woman he thought had given birth to him, can take such news in his stride and move forward as if nothing untoward has happened?

  Christopher’s world fell apart.

  He did not want to hear what his parents—who now were not his parents—had to say. He wanted nothing to do with this couple who had been complicit in covering up the affair and the birth of a bastard child, and who had lied to him his entire life. He was not a squire’s son, and he was not the son of a baronet. He neither belonged to one world or the other. He no longer knew who he was. But one thing he did know—he was a bastard, the ill-begotten fruit of an illicit affair between two adulterers. And he well-remembered the vicar’s Sunday sermon warning parishioners about the evils of fornication out of wedlock—that a bastard child, and the children of such an abhorrent being and their children’s children to ten generations, were not entitled to enter the Kingdom of Heaven.

  Christopher rejected his parents, and he rejected Sir George’s legacy. He left the vale with a few pounds in his pocket, homeless and heartbroken.

  His parents told those who enquired that their son was on the Grand Tour and would return in a couple of years, once he had seen a bit of the world. They did not hear from Christopher for four long winters, and then they had to content themselves with intermittent letters, and the knowledge he was alive and well. They presumed he was living the life of a young English gentleman abroad, visiting ruins, museums, and cathedrals, and in the company of other English travelers. Christopher let them think so.