‘Do you want out of the marriage?’
‘If such a thing is possible,’ she said in a polite and measured tone.
‘I’ll speak to Elliot,’ he told her and left, closing the door softly.
When the lawyer arrived back, Canny was dressed and waiting for him in the library. ‘It’s decided. We want to withdraw. Should I send him the money in orders or in cash?’
Elliot frowned. ‘I’ve bad news, Mr Rutherford. When I reached my office I found that there was a letter from Sloebank. The Duke wants to go ahead with the marriage and he’s most enthusiastic.’
‘So?’ Canny raised his eyebrows. ‘We write and tell him the arrangement’s cancelled. I send the money and that’s that.’
‘It’s not quite so easy, I’m afraid. He’s very touchy. He’ll be furious that we’ve waited for him to accept and then turned him down. It’s a calculated insult to a man like him. Duels have been fought for less.’
‘Odilie wants me to call it off,’ persisted Canny.
In spite of his habitual restraint, Elliot was on the verge of sounding frantic. ‘She can’t appreciate the seriousness of this. Let me speak to her, please.’
Canny agreed but without enthusiasm. ‘All right, speak to her but I want to know everything she says. If she’s still upset, I’ll call it off no matter what you say.’
When Odilie answered the summons to her father’s library, only Elliot the lawyer was there. ‘Sit down, my dear Miss Rutherford,’ he said in a tone as smooth as butter. ‘We’ve a great deal to discuss. I understand that you’re reluctant to agree to this marriage.’
She sat looking solemn. ‘I don’t care for the man, if that’s what you mean.’
The tall, grim-looking man and the dark girl with the proudly carried head stared at each other challengingly. ‘What exactly do you not like about the Duke?’ he asked.
She frowned. ‘I don’t like the way he looks for one thing, and he’s much older than I am. Then I don’t like his behaviour or his friends. He makes me feel uncomfortable.’
Elliot gave a thin smile. ‘We can’t all be an Adonis, unfortunately. As for his friends, when you’re mistress of the Castle, it’ll be up to you to invite the people who sit at your husband’s table.’
The girl gave a shiver and, seeing it, Elliot tried a different tack. ‘Your father has called me here to instruct me that if you want to withdraw from the contract, I must arrange that. But before I do so I must make sure that is really what you wish. You should first know that the Duke himself has repeated his offer – in most enthusiastic terms, I may add.’
She gave a little unsurprised nod and said, ‘I only wish this whole thing had never started.’
‘Perhaps – but it has. An offer has been made and accepted by your father, precipitately perhaps, but that’s his way. Now because of your whim, we’ll have to try to back out of it without too much pain being caused.’ She opened her mouth to protest but he kept on talking in a musing way, ‘We can’t say you don’t like him because he makes you feel uncomfortable, can we? Or that you don’t like his friends!’ He gave a little laugh at the absurdity of the idea as the girl stared at him without expression. Then he leaned forward and asked her, ‘How would you feel if we said you’ve been taken ill? Your father’s old school-friend who’s a doctor in Edinburgh has come to town for the Fair. He’ll testify that you’re not in a fit state to marry. That would be a good way out.’
‘But the Duke saw me last night and I was perfectly well then.’
‘You could have developed some ailment that doesn’t show. Something in the mind, perhaps?’
She stared at him in horror. ‘I should go mad, you mean?’
Elliot leaned back. ‘Your father’s against the idea but I thought you might consider it a possibility.’
She stood up, very flustered. ‘Certainly not! I’m not going to put myself through such a demeaning charade to save that man’s face. This is ridiculous. Can’t I just say I’ve changed my mind? People do that all the time.’
Elliot nodded. ‘You’re right, of course. If we said you’d gone mad or were even physically unstable you’d never find a decent husband though some man will still have you for your dowry no doubt.’
Odilie was pink-cheeked with anger. ‘How dare you talk about me as if I was an animal to be sold! I have some choice in this. If I don’t like the man I don’t have to marry him. Tell him that! Tell him I don’t like him enough to take him for my husband. Tell him he’s not to my taste even though he is a Duke.’
Elliot took a notepad and pencil from his pocket with a sigh. ‘All right, Miss Rutherford, that’s what I’ll tell him…’ He wrote a few words. ‘“Not to your taste”. But I hope you’re prepared for the consequences. Your poor father will suffer beyond his own imagining. How’s he going to take leaving Havanah Court? He’s so devoted to this house. Think of the work he’s put into it… and he’s not young any longer, the trouble could well kill him.’ Odilie’s eyes were anxious as she stared at the man in front of her. ‘What trouble? Why should Father leave his house? Surely it’s only talk about what the Duke will do to him. He wouldn’t be so petty.’
Elliot shut his notebook with a snap. ‘It’s not all talk, I’m afraid. I could tell you very sad stories about things that have happened to people who have annoyed the Duke in the most trivial ways – far beneath the scale of your rebuff. He’s a vindictive man, I’m afraid, and has immense power. The gossip about this wedding is all over the countryside already and he’ll be publicly affronted if you turn him down. It’s beyond imagining what lengths he’ll go to if you reject him but I know your father will be ruined, utterly ruined. So will you, come to that, but you’re young – and you’re the one who’s making the decision.’
His eyes were cold and unsympathetic as he went on, ‘Think about the consequences of this. Your position in this town will be impossible and your father will be broken – is that an incidental as far as you are concerned? The Duke will exact a terrible revenge. I’m telling you that the loss of your father’s money will only be the start of it. You love your father, don’t you?’
The girl nodded in a frightened way for she was only beginning to realise how tight was the corner into which she was being manoeuvred. Elliot pressed on, ‘Then if you love your father and don’t want to see him penniless, if you don’t want to see him driven out of his home and deprived of his friends, if you don’t want to see him ruined, perhaps even killed by the shame of it, start behaving in a realistic manner. I presume you know that your father started life in this town as a beggar – do you want him to die in the same condition because of you?’
She shuddered and sighed deeply. ‘So what you’re saying is that I haven’t any choice really. All the talk about being able to back out was only a lie. That’s what you’re telling me.’
‘Not a lie… it’s only that events have overtaken us. You must look on the bright side, Miss Rutherford. You’ll be a great lady,’ the lawyer told her.
Odilie’s face was bleak and she suddenly looked much older than her eighteen years. ‘I’m caught in a trap,’ she cried, and sank her head in her hands while her shoulders shook with silent weeping but Elliot’s sympathies were not awakened.
‘It’ll be a very silken trap,’ he told her.
When Canny Rutherford was called in and told by his grim-faced daughter that the agreement to marry was to stand, he took her hands in his, stared into her face and asked, ‘Are you sure, Odilie? Really sure, I mean? It won’t matter to me what I lose if you are against this.’
She stared back at him but her eyes were blank as she nodded her head. ‘Yes, I’m sure, Father. It’s too difficult to get out now so I’ve decided to go ahead with it. As Mr Elliot has reminded me, I’ll be a Duchess after all and that’s a great advantage. Don’t worry about me, I can look after myself. I’m not your daughter for nothing.’
He embraced her and told her, ‘You’re a strong-willed girl, I know. Don’t worry, I’ll make sur
e you’ve a watertight marriage contract. You’ll be richer than him from the beginning and you’ll stay that way. He won’t be able to waste your money.’
She smiled bleakly but the words that were in her mind were not uttered. ‘Money isn’t everything. What about love? Am I never to know what that feels like? Apparently not.’
* * *
A baby lay in its cradle in the sunshine while its motherin her kitchen, fondly glancing out at her child every now and again with a rapturous smile on her face. The smile disappeared when she saw a gypsy girl come slinking through the garden gate and head up the path towards her door.
She pushed her head out of the open window and called with a fearful tremor in her voice, ‘I don’t want any pegs or horn spoons, thank you very much.’
Thomassin smiled and said sweetly, ‘That’s all right. I saw your baby and thought I’d put a blessing on it. Is it a boy or a girl, missus?’ She spoke in the peculiar wheedling way that gypsies had and the young mother came out of the low-roofed thatched cottage, wiping her hands and preparing to pick up the precious child. The girl’s flashing eyes intimidated her, however, for she was terrified of gypsies.
‘It’s a girl,’ she whispered. She knew it was best not to antagonise these people for she was a country girl and had lived in Town Yetholm all her life.
Thomassin knelt down by the side of the cradle and smiled even more sweetly. ‘She’s a flower, a beauty. She’ll break hearts and she’ll marry money – lots of money. Look at her little hands.’ She lifted one of the sleeping baby’s tightly curled fists that lay like drifted pink petals on the white cover. Still smiling gently, she opened the perfect little fingers. The mother smiled too, half-flattered and hopeful that the gypsy meant no harm. But she was wrong, for before her horrified eyes Thomassin took a needle from the fold of her shawl and stabbed it into the baby’s thumb. A scarlet pearl of blood welled up and the baby woke with a scream which the mother echoed when she sprang forward with both fists raised. Thomassin, still holding the baby’s hand, put out an arm to fend her off. ‘Stand back,’ she ordered. ‘Stand back, or I’ll curse this child. I need some red stuff from it, that’s all. I’ll put a spell of good fortune on the bairn if I get what I want.’
Intimidated, the mother hesitated and while the baby screwed up its face and howled, Thomassin captured a few drops of its blood in a tiny phial of glass. Then she dropped the little fist and ran away while the terrified mother hugged the equally terrified infant to her bosom and they both cried.
Rachel was in her dark and filthy bothy in Kirk Yetholm half a mile away when Thomassin came crashing in through the door carrying a full sack. ‘I’ve got it all! I’ve got a goose quill, a church candlestick, a snake in a silken bag and a phial of baby’s blood,’ she gasped.
The old woman was almost hidden in the shadows by the fireside but her voice came out loud and clear. ‘Go and pick a white rosebud and a red one and two leaves of white clover. When you’ve got them rinse them in fresh well-water. I’ll dry the snake’s head here by the fire. Leave the flowers at my cottage door and come back at midnight.’
Thomassin was disappointed. ‘At midnight? So late? I want to give it to him soon.’
‘At midnight,’ said Rachel firmly. ‘This can’t be done in daylight or in a hurry. The potion won’t be ready till Fair Day. I told you that already.’
* * *
It was after midday before Hester allowed Grace to leave Viewhill and fetch her father’s horse.
‘That’s only an excuse,’ she scolded. ‘You’re wanting to go down there to talk fancy with your friend. But make the best of it, she’d drop you when she’s a Duchess.’ It was not easy for Grace to maintain a meek attitude as she was harried through her work, but she managed to keep a curb on her tongue although something must have shown in her demeanour, there must have been a new look of defiance in her eye, for her step-mother was especially vicious and fault-finding that morning. It was only the fact that the grey mare had to be fetched and Hester herself was afraid of horses that gave Grace her eventual freedom.
Havanah Court looked deserted when she approached it and Joe Cannonball met her at the door. ‘You’ve missed Miss Odilie, she’s gone off over the bridge on her new horse. She’s in a funny mood, like her father. She said to tell you to go after her.’
‘What’s happened?’ asked Grace.
‘It’s that marriage of course but I’ll let her tell you the story herself. Poor baby, she’s low in spirits and could do with your company,’ Joe told her.
Grace knew that her father was busy in his office and Hester was almost certainly asleep, for she claimed that hot days exhausted her though she slept just as heavily on cold afternoons as well. There was no reason why an hour or two could not be snatched to spend with Odilie. When Stevens saddled the grey for her, she did not head for home but kirtled up her skirts and turned the safe old mare off along the cobbles of Bridge Street towards where Joe Cannonball indicated Odilie had crossed the river. Grace was happy at being in the saddle and raised her head with a smile for people she passed on the roadway. The sun shone down and when she was riding she felt whole and healthy, an entirely different person, temporarily liberated from the constraints of her damaged leg and not the cripple she was when she had both feet on the ground.
It was just short of twenty minutes to three when she trotted up the approach to the Rennie Bridge. The toll-keeper knew her and waved her on without asking for any money but when she reached the other side, she paused at the cross roads: one road went south to Yetholm, the second led to Heiton and Jedburgh while the third headed west in the direction of Maxton – and Bettymill! A feeling of excitement rose in Grace’s throat at the thought of going back there.
There was no sign of Odilie, no one to ask if she had passed that way and no indication of which road she had taken. On impulse Grace turned the head of the mare towards the west. If she met Odilie, good and well, but she had made up her mind to go to Bettymill.
The sun’s blaze was dazzling; it was the hottest part of the afternoon and there were no other people walking on the dry and dusty road as it twisted along the bank of the
Tweed. On the far side of the river was the elegant spread of Havanah Court, embowered in its gorgeous gardens, but soon the road made a sharp turn to the left and headed for the confluence of the Tweed with the Teviot. Grace paused by the place where the waters mingled and watched the brown Teviot water surge into the blue-grey flow of the Tweed. The rivers seemed to rush at each other like old friends, laughing when they met, surging round in great swirls as if they were clasping arms. The sight of such exuberance made the girl’s spirits lift – it was a beautiful day and she was free of her cares for a little while.
Happily she tapped her heel on the mare’s flank and set her trotting towards the next bridge that raised its humped back across the Teviot. Grace had not been over this bridge for a long time and the keeper did not recognise her. With a curmudgeonly look on his face he held out a hand for her penny toll but she leaned down from the saddle and apologised, ‘I’m sorry but I haven’t any money.’
‘In that case you’ll not cross,’ he said, jerking a finger at the bar behind him.
‘You could collect my toll from my father,’ she suggested, for now that she was on her way to Bettymill she was determined that nothing was going to stop her.
‘And whae’s your fayther then?’ asked the toll-keeper suspiciously.
‘He’s Mr Elliot the lawyer.’ The gate was swung open then, for Grace knew that Anrew Elliot was one of the turnpike trustees and no toll-keeper would dare to refuse his daughter the right to pass.
The road was prettier now because it ran along below ancient trees by the side of the field in which the Fair was to be held in two days’ time. She could see that people were already erecting stalls and driving in stakes for horses to be hobbled. Grace loved the Fair and in her mind’s eye she saw the empty field filled with crowds of people and animals, with stalls, sidesho
ws and tents of every colour. She had visited the Fair every year for as far back as she could remember and would hate to miss it, but she reminded herself briskly of her resolution to stay away this year, then had to scold herself not to indulge in self-pity. Her decision to miss the occasion still held good for she was more afraid of disappointment or disillusion than she was of going without entertainment while everyone else was enjoying themselves. If her resolution faltered she thought how she would feel if she saw the fair-haired young gallant with another girl – or if she met him and he did not recognise her! No, she told herself, it was far safer to stay away and go on dreaming.
The old horse that was carrying her so steadily along was tall, nearly seventeen hands high, and Grace’s head bobbed above the hedgerows as she trotted on for about two miles. The countryside became strange to her as soon as she passed the Fair field but she vaguely remembered that the place she was seeking was set beside the river among a thicket of trees; she could recall her childish excitement when the carrier’s cart left the main road and took a path leading under low branches. She wondered if she would recognise the turn-off corner again so each time they reached a path or a gate, she drew on the reins and sat in momentary confusion wondering if this was where she should strike into the woods. But none of the places woke her memory and eventually she went clip-clopping on up little hills and down the other side.
She was on the verge of giving up, convinced that she’d lost her bearings and that her memory had played her false, when she saw a grass-grown path leading off to her right. All at once there was no doubt in her mind – she’d reached the place. Old memories came flooding back. She remembered sitting on the carrier’s cart with Jessie’s arm about her; she remembered the gnarled oak tree that was the marking post; she remembered the mysterious green fairyland look of the pathway that snaked off in front of her.
The sun was still blazing and because she was bonnetless it was a blessed relief to turn off by the ancient oak tree whose branches hung low over the roadway. A grass-covered ride stretched ahead of her. All at once she was a child again and remembered it as being wide but was surprised to see how it had narrowed. The branches still reached down however and the ground was high with weeds. She realised from the luxuriance of the foliage that the path had been neglected and unused for a long time. A familiar smell assailed her, of greenery and damp moss, of wild flowers and a marsh-edged river – the smell of Bettymill.
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