She answered her own question with a fierce, Indeed, I will. I cannot face the notion of a life without him. Like Ruth in the Bible I shall say, ‘Whither thou goest, I will go…thy people shall be my people… ‘But if he wishes to stay in England, I shall accept that, too. If he does not offer I must be brave, however much I might suffer.
She took these thoughts with her into the dining room, where Alan and Stacy began to help her and Jane to choose their breakfast dishes. It was pleasant, Alan thought, to sit in the beautiful room, talking idly, the servants endlessly providing for them, replacing food which had grown cold in the silver dishes on the sideboard. Their every whim was catered for without thought. Such a life explained Ned, Victor and Beverly. Charles was obviously strong-minded, but could even he fail to be affected? Would he, too, fall into idleness and frivolity—become like Ned?
He made his mind up. If he married Eleanor he would do his best to rescue Charles—if he could. For the moment he laughed and talked with Eleanor, and later she walked with him to the stables before he took horse for Brinkley.
Bereft, Eleanor walked slowly back into the House to find Sir Hart had come down to breakfast. Seated there alone he looked very old and tired, and it struck her that one day, quite soon, she would lose him—and that was another new thought. She walked over to him and kissed him on the cheek.
‘Why, Granddaughter, you honour me,’ he said kindly.
‘You deserve it, sir.’
‘Sit with me for a moment, Eleanor. You care for Ned’s Australian friend, do you not?’
‘Yes,’ she said simply, where once she might have been effusive.
‘Enough to marry him—and leave all this?’
He might have been reading her mind this question was so àpropos.
‘Yes, I think so, but most of all I don’t want to lose you.’
‘You will lose me quite soon, I think. My time cannot be long now; I am well past the common age of man.’
She threw her arms around him. ‘Do not say so, Grandfather.’
‘I must, my dear. I fear that I can do nothing for Ned and Beverley, but I would like to see you settled before I die. Once I would have wanted you to marry Stacy. I know now that I was wrong. This stern young man from Australia, Eleanor, is he what you want?’
Eleanor was puzzled. ‘Stern, Grandfather?’
‘Yes, it is the right word for him, Eleanor. Do not mistake him, I beg of you. He is charm on the surface, steel below. I know him, Eleanor. I have met him before, long ago. Except that he is kind and the other was not.’
She had no idea of whom he spoke. She simply put her young hand on his old one and told him, ‘Yes, I love him, Grandfather. Perhaps because he is so different from everyone I know—and in spite of his having Ned’s face, not because.’ Eleanor felt that she had to say this.
Sir Hart’s face twisted in pain. ‘Yes, indeed, he is not at all like Ned—and I believe that he has not spoken to you yet?’
‘No, Grandfather, but he will—I think.’
‘Eleanor, I must warn you. Nothing is sure in this life. It may be that his duty might prevent him from doing so.’
She was puzzled again. ‘His duty? Do you mean that his world and mine might not fit? I do hope not.’
It was not what Sir Hart meant, but he allowed her to think so. He must speak to the boy before he offered for Eleanor—and tell him the truth. Matters could not go on as they were. The young man was devious, but so was he. Sir Hart saw his guest’s evasions and was certain that he knew more of his father’s origins than he cared to give away.
Besides, there was the unknown father to be considered… Sir Hart tried not to think of him.
He put his hand on Eleanor’s head. ‘My only wish is for you to be happy, Eleanor. Remember that. You are a good girl and you are growing up rapidly.’
To himself he added, You are not silly, like your mother and Ned, and for that I must thank your true father, whom you are beginning to resemble in character.
As if to confirm this unspoken judgement, Eleanor’s mother came in, exclaiming, ‘Oh, they have all gone, I see. Only fancy, Ned’s guest is neglecting him again. Ned wanted him to go to the prize-fight at Brinkley and he refused. Some nonsense about work. I am not sure that he is quite the gentleman.’
‘Fortunately for him, probably not,’ said Sir Hart, noting Eleanor’s indignant face. He rose. ‘I shall leave you both; I am very tired. Eleanor, pray remember what I said to you.’
‘What did he say?’ asked her mother eagerly when Sir Hart had gone.
‘Why, nothing,’ answered Eleanor, unconsciously imitating Alan when he was being devious. ‘Only that he grows old.’
‘Oh, that!’ said her mother, disappointed. ‘I was wondering what splendid marriage he had in mind for you now that Stacy has not come up to scratch.’
Eleanor made no answer when she called Alan ‘Ned’s barbarian’, as though he had arrived dressed in skins and carrying a battle-axe. The picture this conjured up set Eleanor laughing.
Unfortunately, that remark symbolised her mother’s ignorance over what was going on around her, she thought sadly. Mother is quite blind to all the signals which Alan and I are giving off! She is also completely unaware that Sir Hart might favour Alan—for that surely was what he had been hinting in their tête-à-tête.
Next it was Ned who came in to reproach her when he found her smiling.
‘At least someone is happy,’ he said sourly. ‘Alan has gone already, I collect.’
‘Yes, he was eager to start work.’
‘Work! He must be light in the attic. Well, I’m off. Do not expect me before night. Tell Sir Hart that—if you wish.’
He had never seemed more frivolous, she thought, watching him ride off. The dreadful thing was that the real point of the excursion was drink, not the fight. Sir Hart was still rationing him and Ned had complained bitterly of it in private. Well, he and Robert could drink themselves stupid for all she cared—except that it was hard on Sir Hart—and, like Sir Hart, she feared for the future of the House and the estate.
Midway through the afternoon Alan returned. He had spent the journey back dreaming of a ride with Eleanor where they might, after a little time, walk across the moor and he could favour her with a few more gentle kisses.
Unfortunately when he entered the House she came towards him, still in her afternoon dress, her face lacking all its usual joy at the sight of him.
‘Oh, Alan, I am so sorry to disappoint you, but we have a grand visitor. Sir Hart wants you to meet him as soon as possible, so I fear that we must lose our ride—but I am sure that you will understand that his wishes come first.’
Before he could answer the hovering butler bowed. ‘Ahem, Miss Eleanor. Sir Hartley was most urgent that Mr Alan should change as soon as he returned and take tea with him in the Gallery.’
In clean clothes, fresh from Gurney’s ministrations, Alan made his way with Eleanor to the Picture Gallery. Tea had been laid on a long table where solander boxes containing water-colour paintings usually lay.
Sir Hart was sitting in his high-backed seventeenth-century chair. A tall man was standing before Sir Beauchamp’s portrait, holding a glass of brandy.
He was dark, saturnine, with curling black hair touched with silver. He was wearing rough country clothing with gaiters—almost like a gamekeeper. Despite this he was formidable: authority radiated from him.
He turned to Alan when he entered, and before Sir Hart could introduce him put out the large hand which was not holding the brandy glass and said, ‘I am William FitzUrse, called Knaresborough, and you, Sir Hart tells me, are Alan Dilhorne, from Sydney, New South Wales.’
‘Indeed, m’lord,’ said Alan, taking the hand which crushed his and looking into the black eyes which were on a level with his own. So this was the cousin of the Queen, known as the Belted Earl, descended from Charles II and a god in these parts.
‘Big bruiser, aren’t you?’ Knaresborough was judicial. ‘Spar with
Ralf, I hear. I should like to see that.’
‘I am not his equal, m’lord.’ Alan smiled, avoiding Eleanor’s eye—he always seemed to be doing that these days. He wondered what she made of the man—and why he was here.
‘Don’t serve me gammon,’ said Knaresborough roughly. ‘Deceive others, if you please, but not me. Servants talk, you know. I hear you buy mills and cozen Rothschild’s—or so Hart tells me. What convict sired you, sir? I should like to meet him.’
He was so superb that it was impossible to take offence.
‘My father is anyone’s equal, m’lord.’
‘So I should suppose. You bought Outhwaite’s after you bammed him, and won those shops in Brinkley by drinking and wrestling. My agent told me that story.’
‘You didn’t tell me about Brinkley, Alan,’ said Sir Hart reproachfully.
‘Close-mouthed, too,’ said Knaresborough. He stared hard at Alan. ‘I heard that you looked like Ned. God knows why anyone should think so. It’s Sir Beauchamp, here, that you’re the image of. I remember him, just. Oh, you have his look, boy—now how did you get that? No, don’t answer me. I don’t want to know—yet. Except that if you are like Sir Beauchamp, God help us all. You shoot, sir?’
‘Yes,’ said Alan, fascinated. This time he looked at Eleanor, who was smiling at him. The smile said, He likes you.
‘Then you shall shoot with me and tell me of your wickednesses in London.’
‘I have to return there fairly soon, m’lord.’
‘None of that, boy. You must come to Castle Ashcourt. London will not go away and the world does not need your guiding hand on it all the time. Let fools have their folly for a little… You laugh, sir?’ he added, seeing Alan begin to smile at this bravado. ‘Pour me some tea, young man; I’m tired of brandy—and where is Ned? At the prize-fight, I suppose. Why are you not there, young man?’
‘Work called, I fear.’
‘And you answered. Tell me of Sydney. I had a friend there once, Lachlan Macquarie. You have heard of him?’
‘He was my father’s friend.’
The heavy brows rose. ‘He would be, I’ll be bound.’ He rounded on Eleanor. ‘Do we bore you, young lady?’
She smiled up at him, nothing daunted. ‘No, indeed, m’lord. Not one of the three of you bores me—I have much to learn from you.’
‘Well said.’ He rounded on Alan again, and began to question him about Sydney and his home. He was indecently well-informed, but wore his learning lightly. Something about his frank manner seemed familiar, tweaked at Alan’s consciousness.
Personal matters over, Knaresborough began to talk politics. ‘I’m glad I’m not in the Cabinet now,’ he told them largely, pouring fresh tea for himself. ‘And so should you be, Hart. No true gentlemen left.’
He swung on Alan. ‘By gentlemen, young man, I mean those with a proper feeling for their country, be they Earls, mill-owners—or adventurers like yourself.’
Eleanor laughed and Alan smiled.
‘I am not an adventurer, m’lord.’
‘If you are not, I never saw one. There are too few like you left here. England will fail without them. Enough for now. I suppose that I have my usual room, Hart? I will see you at dinner, young man, and you, too, Miss Eleanor, where we shall talk nonsense before the ladies retire. Afterwards we shall drink glass for glass, Master Alan, and see who is the better man.’
He bowed to Sir Hart and strode from the Gallery.
‘Well said.’ Sir Hart smiled, amused at Alan’s expression.
‘Very well,’ returned Alan. ‘Is he always like that?’
‘Always.’
‘Does he really expect me to drink with him? I am not usually a drinking man.’
‘You must. His head is as hard as his heart—but he is a nonpareil. Do not be surprised if he asks you to spar with Ralf for him.’
‘Not after a night’s drinking, I hope.’
Eleanor laughed ruefully at that. Like Alan, she could see that Sir Hart was tired. She rose, and said gently, ‘Grandfather, if you are to endure Knaresborough at dinner, you must rest for a little. With your permission, Alan and I will leave you. ‘
He waved them away. On the stairs, Alan said abruptly to Eleanor, ‘Do you like him?’
‘Knaresborough?’ She considered. ‘I don’t think liking comes into it. He’s always kind to me—and to mother—but he is usually abominable to Ned. He and our father were enemies, I think. It’s odd, he frightens many people, but he doesn’t frighten me.’
Later, in his room, pondering over the meeting with the Belted Earl, and what Eleanor had said to him afterwards, he wondered whether Eleanor knew, without knowing, as it were, that Knaresborough was not her suitor but her father.
Later that night, after the women had left, the men sat drinking as Knaresborough had promised. Midnight came and went, and the cloth was covered with dead men—empty bottles left by their carousal. Stacy had collapsed long ago, his head on the table, sleeping happily. The two local landowners who were also guests were upright still, but glassy-eyed. Sir Hart, excused from drinking by virtue of his age, sat there watching them.
Knaresborough, steady still, had his eyes on Alan, who was lying back in his chair, his face ashen, his eyes glittering, upright only by an effort of will, but refusing to satisfy the monstrous Knaresborough by collapsing before he did.
M’lord, smiling grimly, pushed the bottle over to him again.
‘Another,’ he ordered, watching the elaborate care with which Alan poured the liquid into his empty glass. The door opened and Robert Harshaw entered, Ned hanging on his arm.
‘He would come in,’ said Robert ruefully. ‘There was no gainsaying him. We have made a day of it,’ he added unnecessarily.
Ned lifted his head and stared at the littered table and the ruined company. He was still conscious, just. The ride home through the night had revived him a little.
‘Well, well,’ he said, nastily for him, pointing at Alan. ‘So, the paragon is drunk, I see. The bottle is not kept from him. Tell me, Grandfather, what should I do to be so favoured?’
‘Holding your tongue might help,’ answered Knaresborough calmly before Sir Hart could speak.
Ned’s laugh was short and ugly. ‘You have my face, Alan, and you take my place, I see. Where is your reprimand for what I have been doing, Alan? Is Sir Beauchamp not with us tonight?’
‘Leave it, Ned,’ said Alan, his articulation over-perfect.
‘No, I will not. Why did I bring you here?’
‘Leave it,’ said Alan again. ‘It was your wish—and you will be sorry for what you have said in the morning.’
‘He will not remember in the morning,’ prophesied Knaresborough. ‘I know him.’
Ned swayed away from Robert. ‘Oh, you play God, too, Knaresborough. What ill wind brought you here?’
‘I might have wished to see your face on another more worthy of it,’ said Knaresborough, never loath to stir the pot. Sir Hart winced, and Alan closed his eyes at the sight of Ned’s face, a mask of agony as all his shortcomings rose before him to reproach him.
‘I did not have his advantages,’ he said hoarsely, pointing at Alan. ‘No harsh father. Nor his either,’ he added, pointing at the sleeping Stacy. ‘I have no brains, and no steadiness either.’
His mood changed suddenly, he was careless Ned again. ‘I am sorry that you did not come with us, Alan. It was a good fight and the Brinkley boy beat the London bruiser—and I won good money on it.’
‘Come, Ned,’ urged Robert. ‘To bed, old fellow. I am tired myself,’ he said apologetically to the table.
‘No,’ said Ned, ‘I shall be comfortable here.’ He sat by Stacy, put his head on the table and fell asleep on the instant.
‘We must all go to bed,’ said Knaresborough suddenly, looking at Alan’s sad face. ‘For the cub has spoilt the party. I shall let you off, sir,’ he said to Alan. ‘You do not deserve my mock as well as his.’
He walked Alan to his room, where
an anxious Gurney helped him to bed. Ned and Stacy remained sleeping at the table below.
Knaresborough was right. Ned did not remember in the morning, but Alan would have left for London had not Sir Hart begged him to stay. Because of Eleanor he agreed, although with a heavy heart: a heart which grew no lighter for although Ned’s manner to him was as cheerful and friendly as ever, he knew that beneath it, hidden from Ned when he was sober, lay black resentment.
Chapter Eleven
On the morning after the drinking bout Eleanor took Alan for a walk on the moor immediately outside the grounds of Temple Hatton. She was troubled because she had overheard one of the servants talking about Ned’s reproaches to Alan the night before. She was also angry because she knew that Knaresborough had coerced Alan into the drinking bout which had preceded it.
These days she was becoming more and more aware of the undercurrents in the world in which she lived. Consequently she said nothing to Alan about either event, but he was immediately aware that something was troubling her.
Their walk ended on a wide plateau at the edge of a cliff which gave them a superb view across that part of Yorkshire. Eleanor stopped beside a flat-topped boulder and invited him to sit beside her.
She thought that he looked tired and sad, but Alan’s first words showed that he had lost nothing of his acute understanding of her.
‘What is worrying you, Eleanor?’ he asked.
‘Nothing and everything,’ she told him, giving him an odd little smile and an answer which he might have made himself to a difficult question.
He took her hand. ‘I know that it’s wrong of me to be curious, but…’
‘No,’ she said, interrupting him. ‘I will give you a straight answer. It’s Lord Knaresborough. I think that he brings trouble with him. He’s not like Sir Hart…although Sir Hart values him. He uses people, I think, although he can be kind. He’s always been kind to me,’ she added a trifle inconsequentially.
A Strange Likeness Page 18