‘Are they the family your father refers to as The Railway Entourage?’ Harriet asked, smiling. ‘He said Paul Denning was an excellent shot which is why he always invites him to his shooting parties, but that they had only become socially acceptable because of their wealth.’
‘There is a widowed younger sister, a Mrs Felicity Goodall,’ Brook replied, ‘but I’ve only met her once.’
‘Is she the one your father wanted you to marry?’ Harriet asked. When Brook nodded, she added curiously, ‘What was she like, Brook? You never told me.’
Brook laughed. ‘Because I don’t think I’ve ever given the good lady a second thought,’ he said. ‘I suppose I do remember she was not uncomely,’ he added truthfully, ‘tall, quite sturdy but small-waisted. I’m not knowledgeable about women’s clothes but she seemed reasonably fashionable. I do remember now – her voice was a little loud, possibly because she was an accomplished singer. I seem to recall her entertaining the gathering with one or two operatic arias, and getting a lot of applause.’
Harriet felt herself relaxing. It had disturbed her in an inconsequential way when, at the time of her engagement, Brook had referred to Mr Denning’s sister as his father’s choice of wife for him. Jealousy, she reminded herself, was an unpleasant and in this case, a thoroughly unjustified trait.
She forgot all about Felicity Goodall who, had he not first met herself, might have been here in her place as mistress of Hunters Hall.
Unaware of Harriet’s thoughts, Brook continued to sip his port and talk about their nearest neighbour. ‘With the huge expansion of the railways, Denning will quite likely end up a multi-millionaire, and doubtless receive a knighthood into the bargain. Being the snobs we all are, despite his low birth, he’d then be a much-wanted guest! At the moment, Father told me, they tend to be shunned by the county.’
‘Then all the more reason we should invite them here,’ Harriet said. ‘I wouldn’t want us to shun nice people who you like just because other people do. They must be very lonely.’
Touched by his young bride’s kindly thoughts, Brook did not disillusion her by saying he thought it highly unlikely Denning’s sister would remain lonely very long. The one time he’d met her he’d found her very far from being a ‘grieving widow’ or a ‘shy violet’. She was flirtatious – some might say forward – with any male guest who addressed her, even himself. It was not just the way she wore her clothes. There was something about her which drew men to her: had them wondering – as indeed, had he – what she would be like in bed without the constraints of her clothes. Despite her obvious attractions he’d had no inclination whatever to respond to her attempts at flirtation.
It was a strange thing, he thought now, how he had never been tempted by the thought of marriage before he had fallen in love with Harriet three years almost to the day since that shooting weekend in Sussex shortly after he’d arrived back from Jamaica. He’d recalled the charming young immature girl he’d met on his visit to Deerskeep, playing the part very seriously of an accomplished hostess. It had surprised him to discover on his second visit that she was no longer a child, and that, at the age of seventeen had blossomed into a lovely young woman.
Although Harriet was not beautiful in a classical way, her vivacious manner combined with a contrasting youthful shyness had instantly drawn him to her side. Openly monopolizing as much of her time as he could, he had been intrigued by her avoidance of the usual party chit-chat, and the way she’d answered his questions intelligently. No one could have been more astonished than he was when, quite suddenly, she had looked directly into his eyes and said, ‘When Papa told me you were coming to the shoot today, I supposed that you would almost certainly be married and might bring your wife with you. I am so glad you didn’t!’
‘Didn’t what?’ he had asked her. ‘Bring my wife?’
‘No!’ had been her reply. ‘I meant get married!’
Almost immediately, before he had recovered from his astonishment and thought of a reply, she had said matter-of-factly, ‘It means that there is still a chance for me. You see, I made a promise to myself that if I couldn’t be married to you, I would never marry anyone else.’
Seeing the look of utter confusion on his face at such out-spokenness, quite suddenly she had laughed and, putting a small gloved hand on his sleeve, had said, ‘Please don’t think I am trying to make fun of you, or some such. You must remember that I was only fifteen years old when we first met, and of all Papa’s friends I had never met a handsome young man like you. Last thing before I went to sleep, I would ask God in my prayers to please hurry up and make me older more quickly and find a way to help me meet you again. I was very romantic, you see. I’d read far too many romantic poems – granted mostly with my mouth full of bonbons I had stolen from the dining room!’
Suddenly, they had both been laughing, and then equally suddenly, he had realized that he wanted nothing better than to spend more time with this delightful, unspoilt, unusual young girl who, flatteringly, had been telling him she had fallen in love with him, albeit not seriously.
Although he had spent as much time in her company that weekend as convention allowed, he had returned home and told his father he had met the girl he intended to be his wife. Now, only little more than a year later, they had returned from their honeymoon as deeply in love as it was possible for two people to be.
Brook stood up and went round the table to put his hand under Harriet’s arm and help her out of her chair. ‘It’s time we retired,’ he said gently. ‘We have had a long day and a tiring journey … and …’ He broke off but Harriet was certain what he meant. The pressure of his hand on her arm, the look in his eyes, left her in no doubt that he wanted to make love to her. As always, her body sprang to life in response.
Such was their love-making that first night in their new home that, three months later, Harriet realized that she was going to be able to give Brook the first of the many children he wanted – and that she wanted, too.
TWO
1864–1865
Harriet lay back on the heap of soft white linen pillows and touched the empty space in the big four-poster bed, an ache in her throat as she struggled to keep the ever-ready tears at bay. The nurse, dozing in the chair by the window, fussed if she caught her weeping. After the first disappointing miscarriage Harriet had heard the doctor say it was perfectly normal for a mother to grieve if she lost the baby she had been carrying, but this was the third occasion and this time the baby had survived long enough for her to know it had been a son.
Harriet now thought despairingly of the son Brook so much wanted when she had first become pregnant after their honeymoon. Although she had conceived again soon after, she had lost that one too, and before it had been possible to know if it would have been a boy or girl. Now she feared that, having miscarried for the third time, something must surely be wrong with her.
The threatening tears dried on her cheeks as with her eyes closed, she relived the magical moment when Brook had asked her to marry him, and the moment she had first set eyes on him when she had been only fifteen years old. Tall and broad-shouldered, his dark hair matching the colour of his dark brown eyes.
Harriet now drew a deep sigh – her bitter disappointment at this third miscarriage momentarily forgotten as memories of their courtship, Brook’s proposal and her father’s open admission that he could relax now the youngest of his five daughters was off his hands, flooded her memory. There had been no single stumbling block. Brook’s father was a baronet and after his death Brook would inherit the title.
After their wedding, Harriet now reminisced, Brook had taken her to Italy for their honeymoon – first to Rome, then Florence, Sienna and finally Venice. Brook had laughingly insisted that every day they should see one – if not several – famous sights, to let their families know they had not spent all their time in their luxurious hotel rooms where he could make love to her.
She must have conceived for the first time on the night of their return from honey
moon, Harriet realized. Recalling Brook’s pleasure when she had first told him they were to be parents, Harriet drew another long, tremulous sigh, her eyes filling once more with tears. Brook had assured her, like the doctor had, that young and healthy as she was, she would soon conceive again, but she had lost that baby, too.
Tears began once more to drip down her cheeks as she thought how bravely he had received the news and insisted that she was in no way to blame; that possibly he was responsible for carrying out his lovemaking so passionately. Since then he had moderated his ardour and she was forced to see herself as a failure as his wife.
Downstairs in the big, book-lined library, a cheerful fire burning in the fireplace, Brook sat opposite his father as both tasted the brandy Brook had told the butler to bring up from the cellar. Sir Walter Edgerton nodded his bald head, his pale blue eyes glinting approvingly as he regarded his son. For one thing, Brook was and always had been good-natured. He was also what he called ‘a damn good shot’, and a good fisherman, too, who made excellent use of the well-stocked trout stream running through the grounds of the estate. Sir Walter had lost his wife and two daughters in an epidemic of smallpox which, miraculously, he and his only son had escaped. As a consequence, he and the boy had become very close – perhaps even more so as he had never remarried.
‘Sorry to hear the, er … news, m’boy!’ he said, when Brook told him of the distressing ending of this third pregnancy. His heavy jowls shook as he coughed, clearly embarrassed. ‘Not something to talk about, really, but I recall your mother once saying the same thing had happened to one of her sisters, and that she’d gone on to have five healthy offspring.’ Relieved to have got this attempt at sympathy off his chest, he added more cheerfully: ‘Might be a good idea to tell young Harriet, eh?’
Without waiting for Brook’s acknowledgement, he went on in a far more convincing tone: ‘Happens with dogs, too, you know! You remember that black Labrador bitch, Jem? Best retriever I ever had, but hopeless breeder. Only litter the old girl had, half of ’em were too weak to survive. Still, you never know, do you? Daisy here …’ He patted the old gun dog lying as always by his feet, ‘she lost her first – same as Harriet – and went on to produce thirteen pups. Good noses, all of ’em.’
He paused whilst Brook, amused rather than annoyed by the older man’s analogy, refilled his glass. ‘Tell you what, Brook,’ he said, his eyes bright with enthusiasm for the idea which had just come into his head. ‘One of Daisy’s blood line – a nice young bitch – has just whelped. Hitchins told me only last week that we’d have to find a home for one of ’em – gun shy, you see. Now why don’t you give young Harriet a dog? Great comfort dogs, you know, and retrievers are gentle animals – good with youngsters, obedient, that sort of thing.’
His face grew even redder as he warmed to his idea. He was essentially a very kind man if lacking much in the way of brains – ‘upstairs’ as he was wont to say, tapping his forehead.
‘Best thing for a female in her condition. Hitchins is a knowledgeable fellow and he says that when a ewe or a nanny goat throws a dead one, he gives it one from the others that have had two. Something to look after, don’t you know!’
Brook did not know whether to be insulted by his father’s comparison of his beloved wife to an animal, but he knew he meant it kindly. Besides, giving Harriet a puppy was not such a bad idea – it would keep her busy when he couldn’t be with her. That was not very often but he did spend time assisting his father when their bailiff, Bates, had a problem on the estate. There were, too, the seasonal shooting parties to which Harriet was invited, but he had not thought the bumpy coach ride a good idea whilst she was carrying a child.
‘Yes, thank you, sir – splendid idea!’ he told his father. ‘I’ll talk to Harriet about it.’
Sir Walter looked pleased. ‘I’ll get that stable lad, Billy, to bring the pup for you to see.’ He chuckled. ‘That boy has got a way with animals – he can do anything with horses. Cats like him, too. Can’t stand them m’self but Hitchins said we had to have ’em to keep down the vermin.’
He broke off, drained his brandy glass and gave Brook a boyish grin as he said, ‘Your mother was always telling me I go on talking so long I forget what I began with. Quite right, too! Now, what was I saying?’
He took out his watch, and without waiting for Brook’s reply, said, ‘Better get a move on – I mean to go up to London this afternoon and see my banker in the morning. I’d best get off home now.’
Brook went over to the fireplace and pulled the rope, calling one of the servants to bring his father’s horse round to the front door.
As soon as his father had disappeared down the long drive, Daisy following close behind, Brook went upstairs to see his wife. She had fallen asleep and the nurse was tip-toeing round the room tidying the various medicines and paraphernalia round her patient’s bed. She looked sympathetically at the handsome young man standing in the doorway. She had perforce seen the distress and sympathy on his face when he’d first been allowed into the room after the unhappy miscarriage. He had held his sobbing wife in his arms so tenderly that, surprising herself, tears had come into her eyes.
Regardless of the nurse’s presence, Brook had lent his cheek against Harriet’s and told her that he loved her and that what had happened was unimportant – that they would soon have another baby, ‘Two, three, fourteen …’ he’d added in the hope of making her smile through her tears.
The doctor had given strict instructions that his patient was not to have any visitors for at least two days other than her husband, who should stay no more than five minutes at a time, but now, for the first time in her long life as a nurse, the woman found herself disobeying a doctor’s instructions. She had not been able to bear to part them as Brook had rocked Harriet gently in his arms.
‘There’ll be another one on the way afore long, sure as ducks is ducks,’ she said later to Cook as she accepted a welcome cup of tea in the big, busy kitchen. ‘Like two lovebirds, they were! Wouldn’t surprise me one bit if she don’t end up with a dozen or more.’
What the nurse had no way of knowing was that Fate had other ideas.
THREE
1865
It was a beautiful spring morning and, for the first time since her miscarriage, Harriet’s former joy in her life had replaced the months of depression. Worrying continuously about her, Brook had decided to indulge her further by dismissing the nurse who he had insisted must remain to oversee her recovery long after it was necessary for her to do so.
Harriet had disliked the way the woman fussed over her all the time, even, on occasions, interrupting her evenings alone in the drawing room with Brook, saying, ‘Time you were in bed, madam!’ and, ‘Tut-tut’ when Harriet protested she was not in the least tired and had no wish to retire.
Holding her hand, Brook would look anxiously at her and at the implacable face of the nurse, and say reluctantly, ‘My darling, much as I have been enjoying our conversation, I think you should do as Nurse says, otherwise you will never get your strength back!’
It was useless for her to protest that she felt perfectly well again, that she wanted to stay with Brook with whom she was more in love than ever. In the daytime when he was busy somewhere on the estate, or out shooting or fishing, silly as she knew it to be, she missed him.
On occasions, Jenkins, their coachman, would drive Brook to London to his father’s offices in the city in order to be brought up to date with the situation in Jamaica where his family owned a vast and profitable sugar estate. Shortly before Brook’s marriage, Sir Walter had handed over to him the responsibility for the running of the estate. During the three years Brook had spent on the island after he’d left university, he had learned everything necessary for good management of the sugar plantations and his promotion had earned him an increased allowance which enabled him to fulfil more than adequately his future duties as a husband and, he hoped, father.
Brook disliked the days and nights in London apart from H
arriet as much as she did, but in view of her pregnancies – and subsequent miscarriages – he had ruled against taking her to London with him. Whilst there he stayed at his club for as short a time as was necessary before hurrying back to Hunters Hall and his beloved wife.
Harriet had assured him that he had no need to worry about her when he was away, that as the youngest daughter with four much older sisters, she’d grown up as if she were an only child. Bessie, she told him, would always be on hand if she needed anything. Bessie, she said, had always assisted her mother with twelve younger children and, although older than herself, she was not only capable but totally devoted to her. As children, she explained, she had been permitted to spend much of her spare time with the older girl despite Bessie being the daughter of her father’s gamekeeper. Bessie was familiar with all her needs and was as necessary to her as Brook’s valet, Hastings, was to him. But for Bessie, she confessed, she might have felt even more lonely than she did when he was away.
They did not have many close neighbours and Hunters Hall was quite isolated. Brook’s friends, who he invited to enjoy his sporting occasions, either came on horseback or travelled over the rutted country roads in their coaches. Consequently, the formal half-hour visits by their wives were not, understandably, undertaken very often. The vicar’s wife came up from the rectory in the village once a week on foot, weather permitting. She was a middle-aged, strait-laced, childless woman who, having come upon Brook and Harriet in an unconventional embrace near one of the statues on the terrace the summer they had moved in after their marriage, had made it clear to Harriet that she thought in her position that she needed to be far more circumspect.
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