‘Yes, he does.’
‘Did he discover it before or after he made his proposals to you?’
‘Before. But, sir — he has always known you would do handsomely by me.’
‘Now, he no doubt hopes to profit from my intent.’
‘Come, sir. Bearing in mind what you know of Owen, that is hardly fair.’ Looking away, Jane shook her head. ‘You have never liked him,’ she murmured. ‘He is your own sister's child, but you have no affection for him, none at all. Why is this?’
‘My sister and I were estranged,’ Ellis replied. ‘Owen's mother and I — child, this is all in the past! But if you knew what it costs me to look at my sister's son, you would pity me!’
‘If you were in pain, of course I should pity you. But if you would explain yourself, I might also understand.’ Jane looked steadily back at him. ‘Does my mother know why you dislike Owen?’
‘I forbid you to discuss this matter with your mother! If you so much as mention — ’
‘Then why did you take Owen in?’ asked Jane. ‘If you hated my aunt, why did you offer her son a home?’
‘I was brought up in the Christian religion. I understand my duty. Now, I shall expect you to know yours.’
‘Indeed?’ Jane met his eyes. ‘I hope I have never given you any cause to think I don't?’
‘No, you have not. So now, I shall expect you to act in accordance with my wishes.’
‘Do you mean I must give Owen up?’
‘If you wish to be called my daughter, indeed you must.’
‘I see.’ Jane blinked rapidly. ‘Sir, I see I have taken you by surprise. I have upset and annoyed you, too. May we discuss this matter again tomorrow?’
Ellis shrugged. ‘There is nothing more to say.’
‘Sir, I — ’
‘My dear child — for so you are, and will ever be to me — don't persist in this folly! If you do, you will destroy your own happiness forever. You will also break your parents’ hearts.’
‘I don't see how!’ Jane met his eyes. ‘Sir, Owen has always behaved honourably by me — and, in spite of what has passed between you and me today, I still love him dearly. I believe he loves me. I hope you will not be so cruel or unjust as to hate him merely for loving where he cannot help it?’
‘I hope I should never be unjust to anyone, for any reason at all.’
‘You will not send him away, or look unkindly on him?’
‘Provided you and he accept that there can be no wedding — that your relationship can never be any but that of cousin and cousin — Owen is welcome in my house.’
‘May I go now?’
‘You may.’
* * * *
Owen found Jane in the rose garden, sitting quietly in the dusk. There were no tears, but her pale face, and the way she clung to him, told him the news was bad.
‘Was he very angry?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘He forbade you to think of me?’
‘He forbids us to think of marriage.’ Jane bit her lip. ‘But all the same, I shall defy him. If I must.’
‘You mean to run away?’
‘Yes, if it comes to that.’
‘You mustn't.’ Owen hugged her. ‘My dearest Jane, consider. If you run away, he will hate you. He'll cut you off without a penny, and never see you again. But my darling, we're both young. I have no fortune, it's true — but I mean to make one.’
‘How?’
‘I shall take up his offer of an education. I shall study hard, and at university I'll make friends who can be of service to me. So — I shall cultivate the right people. Learn to move well in polite society, and become a great physician, too. Give me five years, that's all. You'll see what I can do!’
‘Shall I?’ Jane looked at him. ‘You're so sanguine. But do you think — ’
‘In a way, your father is right. He thinks of your happiness. If I had a daughter, on whom I meant to bestow twenty thousand pounds, and I discovered a penniless fellow was paying her particular attention, I should forbid her to think of him.’
‘But you're his nephew! He has known you since you were seven years old! He has no reason to think you anything but good and honourable.’
‘But I am still poor.’
‘He could do something for you, if he chose.’
‘He intends to support me through university. You said so yourself.’
‘That's generous of him.’ Jane sniffed. ‘His rents alone are six or seven thousand a quarter. When he married my mother, she brought him factories in Birmingham, a flourishing ironworks, and an income of at least ten thousand a year. Yet he will do hardly anything for you. All because of some silly argument between him and your mother, which he won't even discuss. He always did bear grudges. Owen?’
‘Yes?’
‘Do you know why they quarrelled? Did your mother ever speak of it?’
‘No, never. I did not know of the Darrows’ existence until my father died, and Bethan told me I was to come here. Why not ask your mother about it?’
‘My father expressly forbade me to ask my mother anything. So it appears we must remain in ignorance.’ Jane stood up. ‘I shall not take supper tonight.’
‘Would it be wise for me to stay away?’
‘If you are hungry, go and eat.’ Jane began to walk towards the house. ‘Even my father could not be so mean as to deny you the right to approach his table. Even he will hardly suspect you of mercenary designs on his potted meat or cold souse.’
* * * *
It was as if someone had died. Maria and Rayner sympathised with the lovers but, too afraid of their father's wrath to take their side in public, they did their commiserating behind closed doors.
The servants knew everything. They all liked Owen and would have been delighted to hear a wedding had been arranged, but for the moment they crept about warily, biding their time and hoping for the best — whatever that might turn out to be.
The only person in the household who was not in the least bit afraid of the squire was his wife. Valiantly, Rebecca tried to pretend nothing was amiss. ‘My dear Owen,’ she would say as he came into dinner, ‘pray be seated. Will you have some soup?’ Then she would motion to the butler to serve the guest first. Simmons would nod to the footman, who would then glance nervously at the squire.
But Ellis would say nothing at all.
Jane hated mealtimes now. The carefree chat of previous dinners and breakfasts and afternoon teas had been replaced by frosty silences and awkward pauses, which were harmful to the digestion and gave one heartburn in earnest.
* * * *
‘I have decided to go back to Cardiff,’ announced Owen, as he and Jane strolled by the lake one morning, about a week after their tumultuous declaration of intent.
Jane sighed. ‘So eager to leave me?’ she whispered, miserably.
‘I'm not eager to leave you.’ Owen took her hand. ‘But it is hardly pleasant for me, to be in a house where my presence is only tolerated, and that grudgingly.’
‘You're loved by most of us! There's only one person who merely tolerates you.’
‘That person happens to be master here.’
‘So you're running away.’
‘I am returning to Cardiff to sort out my affairs. To arrange my attendance at university, where I mean to begin this October.’
‘My father is still to pay your fees?’
‘Yes. He called me into his study to tell me so. He was cool towards me. But he was neither insulting nor unkind.’
‘Oh, Owen! What shall we do?’
‘We must wait.’ Owen clasped both her hands in his. ‘I make no demands of you,’ he said. ‘I extract no promises. You are a beautiful, eligible young woman who, while she remains single, is certain to be courted. If you meet a man of fortune whom you like, and if you feel able to return his regard, I shall understand.
‘For my part, I shall always love you. To prove this, I shall work hard, remain constant — and try to show your father
that, although I have no fortune and no special talents to recommend me, I have done my best to deserve you.’
‘I'll never love anyone else.’ Jane smiled up at him. ‘Never.’
Owen kissed her. ‘Then all we need to learn is patience,’ he said. ‘Come. Let's go back.’
They saw the servant running towards them. ‘Mr Morgan?’ Out of breath, the footman bowed. ‘Miss Darrow, I beg your pardon — but his honour requires Mr Morgan's presence in his study. At once.’
Chapter 6
The visitor stood in Ellis Darrow's study, gazing out of the window and across the park. As Owen entered the room, he turned, and Owen saw a well–made, middle–aged gentleman with skin burnt the colour of fine mahogany, and a patch over one eye which gave him the air of a pirate king.
‘My dear Owen.’ Today, to his nephew's great surprise, Ellis was almost friendly. ‘Thank you for coming so promptly. Here is a gentleman whom I particularly wish you to meet.’
The squire glanced towards his guest. ‘Mr Hickson, this is Owen Morgan. The young man of whom I was speaking just now.’
‘Mr Hickson?’ Owen held out his hand.
‘Mr Morgan.’ Firmly, George Hickson shook it.
Then they both looked at Ellis Darrow — who sat down, and motioned to his guests to be seated, too. ‘I see I must explain,’ he began. ‘Well, then. Here it is. My dear Owen, Mr Hickson here was a particular friend of your mother's first husband, Mr Alex Lowell.’
‘Alex and I were at school together. We went on the Grand Tour together, too.’ George Hickson rubbed his one remaining eye. ‘He was a good fellow! A splendid fellow, in fact. The best friend, the dearest — ’
‘Quite so.’ Cutting short this fulsome praise of Alex Lowell, Ellis met Owen's interested gaze. ‘Were you aware that your mother married twice?’ he enquired.
‘I knew my father was her second husband, certainly.’ Owen shrugged. ‘But she never spoke to me or anyone else of her first.’
‘Then how did you know of his existence?’
‘He was buried in the local churchyard. My father's herdsman was also sexton there, and it was one of his duties to tend Mr Lowell's grave.’
‘I see.’ Ellis cleared his throat. ‘Well, now. Mr Hickson here is an East India Company merchant. These days, he is a district magistrate, too. But some years ago, in his capacity as broker–in–ordinary to the Company, he was charged to manage some investments for Mr Lowell.
‘Unfortunately, there was some misappropiation of funds, and Mr Lowell lost a great deal of money.’
‘Not because of me, sir!’ George Hickson's rheumy eye blazed. ‘Sir, you must not allow this young fellow to believe I was responsible for — ’
‘No, indeed.’ Ellis looked down at his desk, then up at his nephew again. ‘Well then, Owen. To cut a tediously involved and complicated story short, here is what happened. More or less.
‘Mr Lowell was a gentleman's son and heir, who on his father's demise inherited a large estate here in Warwickshire. A very wealthy man, he invested a substantial part of his fortune in East India Company stock.
‘In the prime instance, Mr Lowell's investments were managed by Mr Hickson here, initially through an agent in London, but then in Calcutta by Mr Hickson himself. They brought Mr Lowell a very handsome return. Then, however, Mr Hickson's superiors decided he might benefit from a change of situation and air, so he was sent up country to direct the affairs of a tea plantation, in the Himalayan hills.
‘His responsibilities in Calcutta devolved on a Mr Jarvis, to whom Mr Hickson also entrusted Mr Lowell's affairs.’
‘But Greville Jarvis was a blackguard!’ Mr Hickson ground his teeth in rage. ‘A scoundrel of the first order! A thieving, rascally — ’
‘Yes, indeed.’ Ellis flashed Mr Hickson a glance which Owen understood meant the squire would tolerate no more interruptions. He hoped Mr Hickson understood it, too.
‘Mr Jarvis was a clever villain,’ continued the master of Easton Hall. ‘He feathered his nest at the expense of others, it's true — but for many years, he left no trace whatsoever of his own deceit. All the same, he ruined Alex Lowell.
‘Some years later, Mr Lowell and I managed to recover some little part of the original investment, but the bulk of it remained lost. I believed for ever. That is, until Mr Hickson came to call on me today.
‘For, when he finally returned to Calcutta and observed the conduct of Mr Jarvis, Mr Hickson became suspicious. He was instrumental in initiating the enquiry into that person's affairs. In doing so, he recovered a large percentage of Mr Lowell's cash.’
‘But, in the meantime, my friend was ruined!’ George Hickson looked ready to burst into tears. ‘My dear Mr Morgan, only picture the scene! In their despair, Alex and your poor mother left Warwickshire. They retired to the decent obscurity of South Wales. There, Alex Lowell died — of a broken heart!’
‘But my mother survived their misfortunes,’ observed Owen. ‘She married again.’
‘Poor lady.’ Dolefully, Mr Hickson sniffed. ‘What else could she do?’
Politely, Ellis coughed. ‘Owen,’ he began again, ‘Mr Hickson returned to Warwickshire in the hope he would be reunited with Mr Lowell, and be able to tell him face to face that his fortune is restored. But, since Mr Lowell is dead and left no direct heirs, this fortune will probably pass to a distant cousin, presently living in Leicestershire.
‘Nowadays, however, Mr Hickson occupies a very senior position in the government of Bengal. His official purpose in coming to England is to recruit likely candidates for service in the East India Company. My dear Owen, would you be interested in going out to the East?’
‘To the East?’ Owen thought for a moment. He dredged his memory for what he knew of India — which, he had to admit, wasn't very much.
But he liked the idea of travel and adventure. Liked it very much, in fact. He needed to make his fortune. This offer seemed a heaven–sent opportunity to do exactly that. ‘I think I would be very interested indeed,’ he replied.
* * * *
Jane did not share Owen's enthusiasm at all. ‘He means to get rid of you!’ she interrupted tearfully, as Owen was right in the middle of telling her just how rich and successful he was going to be. ‘He will pay your passage out East without a single murmur of complaint. But only because he intends you to die of malaria when you get there!’
‘Nonsense.’ The more Owen thought about Mr Hickson's proposals, the more he liked the sound of them. While he did not intend to emulate the devious Mr Jarvis and go in for wholescale rapine and corruption, from talking at length with Mr Hickson he understood that an ambitious, intelligent young man with a flexible attitude to life could do very well in the East. ‘I'll make my fortune,’ he declared. ‘I'll become as rich as Croesus himself, you'll see. Then I'll come home and marry you. If you'll wait for me?’
‘I'll wait.’ Miserably, Jane shook her head. ‘You need have no fears on that score.’
‘Oh, darling!’ Owen took her in his arms. ‘Don't look so sad!’
‘I must be sad.’ Jane began to cry again. ‘The person I love best in the world wishes to leave me.’
‘I shall hate to leave you! But don't you see what a wonderful opportunity this will be for me?’
‘So what has become of your ambition to be a famous physician, consulted by the wealthy and courted by the great?’
‘I must set that scheme aside,’ said Owen. ‘This new project offers far more scope for advancement, for making my fortune, than becoming a mere doctor could ever do. Darling, I'm young, I'm healthy, I have a certain native wit. I must succeed!’
‘Will you write to me?’
‘Of course I shall! Every single day. I shall keep a journal, which I'll copy out for you and send you piecemeal. You shall know everything — the hour at which I wake, what I do all day, when I lie down again to sleep.’
‘I shall do the same.’ Taking his face between her hands, Jane looked deep into Owen's eyes. ‘But this
will not be a correspondence between children. You must open your heart and mind to me, and I shall do likewise for you.’
‘But what if your father — ’
‘This will be no concern of his. Our letters will be private. I shall speak to my mother, and convince her that now I am of age, it would not be at all proper for her to overlook my correspondence. I'm sure my father will abide by her decision.’
‘My aunt has always been my friend.’
‘She loves you. As do my brother and sister. Whatever my father may think or say, you must never doubt that the rest of us love you dearly, and will always wish you well.’
* * * *
Maria and Rayner did not — could not — love Owen as much as Jane did, but they were certainly very fond of him. When George Hickson's proposals became known to them, they were delighted. Rayner offered his sincere best wishes, and Maria laughed with pleasure at the prospect of Owen growing rich.
‘Although you will not be nearly so handsome when you come home,’ she cautioned him, as she glanced towards the leathery old gentleman who was their father's favoured guest, and who enlivened their dinner time conversation considerably with his travellers’ tales of the distant East. ‘My dear Owen, pray keep out of the noonday sun! I hate to think of your beautiful complexion becoming so weathered and red that Jane will faint with horror when she sees you again.’
‘I shall wear a broad–brimmed hat at all times,’ promised Owen, solemnly.
* * * *
Tonight, as the family took supper together, Mr Hickson was persuaded to explain the mysteries of suttee, the horrible heathen practice whereby widows were obliged to immolate themselves on their late husbands’ funeral pyres. ‘It's a most barbarous custom,’ concluded Mr Hickson, as he finished his account of the Maharajah of Mirzagarh's funeral, which he himself had personally attended, as the representative of the Governor of Bengal.
‘Barbarous,’ agreed Ellis.
‘Absolutely,’ murmured Maria, shuddering gracefully.
But Jane merely shrugged. Burning to death must be a terrible way to die — but a voluntary suttee no doubt possessed a certain tragic nobility? Surely, a sacrifice like that must inspire an almost religious awe? If a woman had truly loved her husband, moreover, was it not natural that she should wish to be at his side, even at the gates of death and hell?
The Ash Grove Page 9