Grace’s face was bleak as she nodded. ‘She goes out of her way to make my life a misery and always has. If I annoy her she beats me or locks me up, with only water and dry bread to eat – she’s often left me for two days at a time. Sometimes I don’t even know what I’ve done to offend her. If any of the other children do something wrong, she finds a reason to take the whip to me. If I did die no one would miss me. I sometimes think I must be a really hateful person because no one – not even my father – likes me.’
Odilie was urgent in her protestations of reassurance. ‘But I like you, I like you very much. Don’t I matter? You mustn’t say such terrible things.’
Grace was inconsolable, however. ‘Perhaps you’re only sorry for me because I’m pathetic and crippled. The nice young man who helped me over the bridge at the Fair last year felt the same. He was sorry for me, too. I could see it in his eyes.’
‘What young man?’ asked Odilie curiously.
‘Oh, just a man who helped me when I nearly fell on the bridge last year. It was so embarrassing… I really wished I was dead then.’
Odilie grasped her friend’s hand firmly. ‘Don’t talk like that. You’re a lovely girl, and a sweet person. I like you very much. Martha likes you, she’s told me she does. She says Hester’s hard on you because she isn’t your real mother and is jealous. I expect you remind her that your father loved another woman before her.’
Grace shook her head. ‘I can’t imagine Father ever loving anyone. He knows what Hester does to me and he doesn’t care a fig or try to stop her.’
Odilie looked shocked. ‘Isn’t there someone else in your family you can talk to about Hester? Haven’t you any relations on your mother’s side?’
Grace shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think so. I used to be taken by an old maidservant to visit my grandfather but that stopped when I was about eight – he died then, I think. I remember him very vaguely and I seem to remember my mother too, or perhaps I only dream about her. I think she used to sing to me.’
‘What happened to her?’ asked Odilie.
Grace shook her head. ‘That’s just it – I don’t know. She must have died when I was small because Hester’s been my father’s wife for as long as I can remember. I asked Father about my mother once and he was very angry. He shouted at me and said that I wasn’t to mention her ever again. I didn’t even know what her name was until a few months ago when I found an old Bible in our house with her signature in it. Now I know she was called Lucy Allen but absolutely nothing else about her.’
Odilie was genuinely astonished. ‘But this is Lauriston! This is a town where everybody knows everybody else’s business. There must be somebody who remembers your mother and your grandfather. If you were eight when he died, that’s only ten years ago – yesterday, as far as this town’s concerned.’
Grace’s brows furrowed. ‘I know, but if I ask about my mother, people go strange. We used to have a maid called Jessie – she was the one who took me to see my grandfather and I’m sure my father and Hester didn’t know what she was doing – but even Jessie would go all silent if I wanted to know about my mother. She’s dead now so I can’t ask her any longer.’
Odilie sat up straight on the bench and announced, ‘I know what to do. Aunt Martha’s always talking about things that happened forty or fifty years ago as if it was yesterday. I’ll ask her about your mother. She’s sure to know all about her because she’s lived in the town since she was born and she has a memory like an elephant’s. I’ll do that when you’ve gone home and I’ll tell you exactly what she says. Now come on, cheer up. We came out here to make ourselves feel better, not worse! Look over there at all those people. What do you think they’re doing?’ She pointed across the river to where a large group of men could be seen straggling along the road heading for the Rennie bridge.
Grace gazed out too, shading her eyes against the sun with her hand. ‘Oh, that’s the carpenters,’ she said.
‘What are they doing over there all in a bunch?’ asked Odilie.
‘They’re building a wooden footbridge across the Tweed from the Cobby to the field where the Fair’s held. They do it every year and then people pay a penny to cross it because it’s a short cut into the fairground.’
Odilie was interested. ‘Of course! I’d forgotten about this famous Fair that everybody’s talking about. It must be a wonderful event.’
Grace smiled. ‘Oh yes, it is. Everybody goes. Even my father takes a day off work. People come from all over the Border country, from the Cheviot Hills and the Yarrow Valley, from Selkirk and Melrose and Lauder. They even come up from England and foreign parts.’
Her eyes were shining again as she spoke and Odilie laughed. ‘At least the thought of it cheers you up. Are you meeting a beau there or something? Maybe the fellow you met last year!’
Grace shook her head, embarrassed again. ‘Of course not! But I like the Fair because of the crowds and the excitement. People are always in such a good mood – at least till night-time when the gypsies start fighting. You’ll love the Fair, Odilie, because there’s all sorts of stalls and sideshows, medicine sellers and pedlars with velvet and lace for sale and fortune-tellers and a circus.’
‘When is it? We’ll go together,’ Odilie declared.
‘It begins at noon next Monday but your father might not want you to go – it can be rowdy.’
Odilie smiled ruefully. ‘My father won’t dare to try and stop me doing anything. I’ve got him in my pocket over this marriage. You and I will go to the Fair and enjoy ourselves. It may be the last time I can go out as an ordinary girl.’
By this time the carpenters had reached the end of the bridge and it was possible to see that there were about twenty of them, some carrying tools and others with leather aprons looped up around their waists. As they drew nearer the girls could hear that they were singing as they tramped along and Grace held up a finger while she told her friend, ‘Listen, Odilie, they’re singing the Fair song…’
Odilie cocked her head slightly to catch the sounds that came floating over the water. The tune was catchy, like the music for a country dance, and she strained her ears to hear the words.
‘St James’ Fair, St James’ Fair,
I’ll be there, Oh, I’ll be there,
Tae see my lass wi’ the curling hair.’
The men sang the short refrain over and over again, their voices rising up in the gathering dusk. Odilie repeated the lyric to Grace who nodded and smiled, ‘That’s right, that’s it. You’ve got it. St James’ Fair is said to be a wonderful place for lovers meeting.’
When evening was well advanced, Grace left for home and Odilie went back into the house where she sought out her aunt who she found mending a pair of Canny’s silk stockings. He could well afford to buy new ones when they laddered and he probably would not wear mended ones anyway but the old habits of thrift were too deeply ingrained for Martha to give them up.
Odilie sat down beside her aunt and lifted a skein of silk, running it gently through her fingers as she sighed. ‘Poor Grace, she’s so unhappy. It makes me ashamed of moaning about my own situation when I hear what she has to put up with…’
‘And what’s that?’ asked Martha, stitching away.
‘That father and step-mother of hers. They sound dreadful.’
‘I hope it makes you appreciate your own father then,’ said Martha in a reproving tone.
Odilie nodded. ‘I do, really. I know he’s only in favour of this marriage plan because he loves me, but… I’m not going to argue that all again, Aunt Martha. It’s Grace I want to talk about. I wish I could help her.’
‘I doubt if there’s much you can do except to be her friend,’ was Martha’s advice.
‘Hasn’t she any family? When we were walking in the garden she told me about her mother,’ Odilie ventured and was rewarded by seeing that Martha’s needle faltered but her voice was still level as she replied noncommittally, ‘Did she?’
Although she was disappointed by
this lack of encouragement from her aunt who usually loved to gossip, Odilie pressed on, ‘She said she knows hardly anything about her mother and can’t find anything out. Would you believe that no one had even told her what her mother’s name was but she found it written in an old Bible. Her father’s very secretive about it all, apparently.’
Martha knew that she was being pumped. ‘Her mother’s name was Lucy Allen,’ she snapped shortly.
‘Yes, Grace knows that now but she’s longing for more information. I said I’d ask you because you may know something about Lucy Allen.’
‘I knew her by sight but she was much younger than me,’ said Martha.
‘Tell me about her. What did she look like? Was she a local girl?’ This is like drawing teeth, thought Odilie.
‘She was born and brought up at a place called Bettymill, a mill by the Tweed along the road to Maxton.’
‘That’s interesting. Grace doesn’t know that. Is there anything else?’ Odilie persisted.
‘There’s naething much to tell.’ Martha stood up and started gathering the mending together as if she was anxious to make her escape but her niece put out a hand to detain her.
‘I don’t believe you, Aunt Martha. I’ve never known you without something to tell, even about the most uninteresting people. For instance, you haven’t told me what she looked like.’
Martha sat down again and sighed, ‘Grace has a great look of Lucy. She was tall, too, and she had the same kind of hair – yellow and curly, the kind lads like.’
‘Yes, Grace’s hair’s her prettiest feature. Was her mother pretty? Maybe it’s because she reminds him of her mother that her father’s so hard on her. Maybe he still mourns her.’ Odilie was delighted that she was getting somewhere at last.
‘I doubt if he mourns Lucy,’ said Martha in a hard voice.
‘Why?’
‘Because Elliot’s no’ the sort to mourn anybody – and because… Oh, let it be, Odilie. It’s a sad story.’
Odilie, however, was deeply interested by now and scented a mystery. ‘Oh, please tell me more. If there’s anything Grace shouldn’t know I won’t tell her.’
But Martha was looking grim. ‘Like I said, let it be, Odilie. Some things are best left alone – anyway, there’s nothing to tell. Grace’s mother was called Lucy Allen and her father was old David Allen, the miller at Bettymill. She was his only child, a very bonny lassie with bright yellow hair and a laughing face. She’s dead now. She’s been dead a long time.’
There was something so very chilling about the way the last words were spoken that Odilie was sobered. ‘When did she die?’ she asked softly.
‘Long ago. I don’t remember.’
‘What did she die of?’
‘She died because she had another bairn after Grace.’
‘Like my mother! She died of childbed fever, too.’
‘No, not like that exactly – it wasn’t childbed fever. But she died just the same,’ and Martha would be detained no longer but scuttled off, determined to bring the conversation to an end. She left behind a niece puzzling over her aunt’s strange behaviour. Any chance of following Martha and pressing home her advantage was removed by Canny, who came in brandishing a letter that carried an enormous green wax seal.
‘It’s from the Duke,’ he told her. ‘He wants us to go to dinner at Sloebank Castle on Friday night. He has a party of friends up there for the Fair. It’s a very civil letter, Odilie.’ He held it out to her to read but she brushed it away.
‘I don’t want to read it. I suppose you’re going to accept anyway. I can only hope that if I don’t pass muster, if my table manners are bad or if I burp or pass wind perhaps he’ll send me packing.’
She saw the look of consternation on her father’s face at this and was immediately contrite, adding, ‘Oh, don’t worry. I won’t do anything like that.’
Canny assured her, ‘I never imagined you would,’ but in secret he wouldn’t put it past his wayward daughter to behave like a hoyden in order to escape this marriage.
‘Didn’t you? Wait and see,’ she teased wickedly. ‘But remember, though I’ll go to this dinner with you, if I don’t like him, if he doesn’t suit me, I’ll turn him down. Goodnight, Papa.’ And she swept from the room leaving him staring forlornly after her.
Chapter 3
Thursday, 30 July
The sun rose from a bank of clouds like someone rising from bed and rubbing his eyes. The first light glimmered over the roofs of the town and gilded them with gold. Birds rustled in their night-time roosts and then, in a burst, they began singing a glorious chorus. The sound wakened a sleeper in a curtained bed in the fine house overlooking the river. He turned on his side and slowly came back to wakefulness. As soon as light began creeping through the bedroom window, Canny Rutherford pulled his watch off its hook on the wall behind his head and consulted its face. It was still only a quarter to six and there were two hours to endure, alone with his troubled thoughts, before breakfast-time. He was worried, anxious in his mind; not in the blissful state that he should have been with his daughter on the verge of marrying a Duke.
‘Elliot’s right – I shouldn’t be so lenient with her,’ he told himself crossly. ‘I ought to tell her what she must do and then she should do it.’ But then he remembered he was dealing with Odilie, who made up for her lack of stature by spirit and dogged determination. He had always indulged her and hated to see her unhappy. When she wept, as she did when thwarted, each tear had the power to scald his soul.
By half-past six he had decided that the loss of ten thousand pounds was endurable. By seven o’clock he’d changed his mind again. The girl didn’t realise the value of the opportunity he was handing to her. As the birds outside his window poured out their morning orisons, he decided that for her own sake Odilie must be persuaded to go through with it. He also decided that he’d buy her a new horse, for horses were her chief passion and she had recently been agitating about a mare that was for sale near Coldstream. It could jump like a cat, apparently. If he was as tender-hearted as Elliot said, he’d probably buy the mare and anything else she wanted to soften the disappointment of having to agree to a loveless but socially advantageous marriage.
Lying back against his pillows, Canny rehearsed how to be firm with Odilie; he thumped one fist into the open palm of the other hand emphatically as he prepared what he was going to say to her: ‘It’s your duty to do this. You’ll be a Duchess, dammit.’ Hold that idea, he thought. Hold it and persist in it. Don’t weaken even if diamond tears begin to slide down her cheeks. Above all, don’t weaken!
When shafts of sunlight falling across his bed told him morning had fully come at last, he jumped up, threw on his clothes and hurried down to the stableyard where Stevens the head groom and his small army of stable lads were bustling about.
‘Stevens, get yourself over to Coldstream and buy that mare you were telling my daughter about. I don’t care what it costs but don’t come back without it,’ said Canny shortly.
The birds also wakened His Grace the Duke of Maudesley, whose Christian name was James. He got up and stood in his nightshirt in front of the empty fireplace of his vast bedroom in Sloebank Castle, yawning and stretching his arms above his head as he looked at his favourite picture, a Zoffany painting of a cockfight in the court of an Indian prince. My word, he thought as he did every morning, there’s a lot going on in that picture. The chap who painted it knew a bit about cockfighting.
Crowds of natives in long robes and tightly wound turbans were watching British officers in the colourful uniforms of the East India Company Army as they matched their fighting cock against the bird of an Indian prince. The detail was excellent and the Duke, who was a keen enthusiast of cockfighting himself, always found something new to examine in the scene. He liked to imagine the progress of the fight that followed – the excited shouting of the men, the noise of scraping in the dust as the cocks clawed the ground, the furious beating of their wings and the ripping sound of their beak
s as they tore each other apart. Most of all he liked to imagine the smell of blood in the sawdust.
In the bed behind him a girl stirred and sat up against the pillows. Her hair was tangled and her eyes looked bleak as she stared at him. He didn’t even know her name and had not enough interest to find it out. ‘Get out,’ he said shortly, and gestured to the door. She gathered up her shift and ran naked for the doorway. He watched her plump thighs and round little belly go without regret or sympathy. If he saw her later carrying hot water to the guest bedrooms he wouldn’t even recognise her.
When she had disappeared, he walked over to the window and pulled aside the long brocade curtain. The lawns were sparkling with dew in the sunlight and on their far expanse he could see a young man wandering about. He leaned forward and stared a little harder before he recognised Playfair, the young architect, out there dreaming of building a new castle no doubt. The Duke smiled and felt exhilarated by the awareness of his privileged status in life. Sometimes he found it difficult to believe that he, a younger son who had been born with no prospects except to join the Army and look for a rich heiress to marry, had actually inherited a Dukedom – and now the dark-skinned little beauty with a dowry as big as a treasure trove had come along for him. Good thing I didn’t marry any of those women in the past, he thought to himself. His brother, the last Duke, never married but that was because he was afraid of the curse. He thought he’d avoid it by staying single, poor fool, but witches’ curses meant little to James.
He’d marry and take his chance – a nice chance, too, with a dowry of a quarter of a million and more to come. Until now there had not been enough money to live the life he wanted but then he’d seen Miss Rutherford, the rich merchant’s daughter – from a distance it was true – even if the girl was cross-eyed or half-witted, he’d still marry her.
With a happy look on his face, he stared across the rolling acres of his park towards the gleam of the River Tweed making its peaceful way through his green meadows. Water brought this to me, he thought. His brother had drowned while boating in Italy and if that wasn’t the hand of Fate he didn’t know what was. He’d never expected to be possessed of such power as he now enjoyed.
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