by Mary Mackie
Other people had had the same urge to be out, boys and girls, lads and lasses let free from work, nursemaids with prams, mothers and matrons, artisans and gentry, strolling under limes and chestnuts where a thick haze of spring was spreading. Music floated from the bandstand, and a Punch and Judy man had set up his tent under a tree, the performance watched by a small crowd of children and adults. We paused to watch, laughing at the puppets’ antics.
Then fingers fastened briefly on my wrist. ‘Rose…’ a vibrant voice breathed low, and as I turned Geoffrey tipped his hat to my aunt. ‘Ah – g-good afternoon, Mrs Hamilton. Please excuse me. I need to have a word with Mrs Pooley. About that hedge,’ he told me, though his eyes held other messages. ‘I thought we should sort the trouble out before it goes much further. If I may…’
He moved away, obliging me to follow him. I saw Aunt Beatrice frown as she stared after us. Geoffrey headed away from the crowd, to a slope of grassed hill dotted with japonica bushes bright with waxy pink flowers. He kept slightly ahead of me, walking briskly until we were clear of any possible listeners.
‘You shouldn’t—’ I began, but he cut me off.
‘I know I shouldn’t, but what choice had I? I tried to get a message to you but the boy said you were with your aunt. The maid at Weal House told me where I might find you.’
‘You went to Weal House? Geoffrey—’
‘I know!’ He stopped and turned to me. ‘I know it was an indiscretion but I didn’t know how else to manage it. Forgive me, please. I had to see you today. I didn’t want a hasty note to tell you I had gone.’
‘Gone?’ The word echoed hollowly inside me.
‘Lucinda’s father has been taken ill. She wants to go home to Italy to be with her mother. I tried to persuade her to go alone, but she became hysterical. She won’t go without me.’
I seemed to have played this scene before. The first time we parted he had been going to Italy. I had known that it was an ending. I knew it now. I knew what I ought to do – I ought to say that we could not go on, that I must make my life with my husband. Much as I loved Geoffrey, there were times when love was not enough. Other things had equal importance – reputation, family, peace of mind…
All of that was in my mind. And there it remained. I couldn’t bring myself to speak it aloud.
‘It may be for only a week or two,’ Geoffrey said.
‘Rose…’ Aunt Beatrice called from a few yards down the hill. ‘Rose, dear, is everything all right?’
Fumbling in my reticule for a handkerchief, I called back, ‘Yes, Aunt, I’m just coming.’
‘I won’t embarrass you further, love,’ Geoffrey murmured. ‘We’ll meet again when I come home. Please God it won’t be long. I shall miss you.’ With which he doffed his hat, sketched me a formal bow and added more loudly, ‘Good afternoon, ma’am,’ as he set off down the hill, passing Aunt Beatrice with a ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Hamilton.’
‘Rose!’ Aunt Beatrice struggled on stiff knees to my side. ‘Wasn’t that young Mr Devlin from Ambleford? But you’re weeping! What did he say? Has he upset you?’
‘It’s nothing. Only…’ I cast about for some explanation. ‘Oh, some problem over our boundary hedges. You know the trouble Father always had with Ambleford. I just… I just didn’t seem able to—’
‘Well, really!’ She was indignant on my behalf. ‘And I always thought Mr Devlin such a pleasant young gentleman. That he should accost you like this, and leave you in tears, why, it’s… it’s a disgrace, that’s what it is. Come, my dear, let’s go home. We’ll have some tea. That will make you feel better. I always say a good cup of tea is nearly as refreshing as an hour of prayer.’
I don’t remember which extracts from Mr Dickens’s novels we heard at the reading that evening, but I do remember weeping profusely over most of them. I soaked three handkerchiefs.
* * *
The following week, on a day when the April sun had the strength of summer, the Wyatt girls and Robert called in at the farm on their way to stroll round Sandringham Park and admire the new house. They persuaded me to go with them. As we walked, we observed the site where a new water tower was being built on the hill behind Orchards Farm. After his illness, and the typhoid outbreak in the villages, His Royal Highness was taking pains to ensure the purity of his water supply.
I found myself telling Robert about the nuisance the building of the water tower was causing me. Since the spring that fed the supply was in Poacher’s Wood, contractors came and went across my land, chewing up the paths with their heavy wagons, spilling bricks and leaving mess. At least the problem was finite; once the tower was complete the men would go away.
‘And are your other problems as easily resolved?’ Robert asked.
‘Other problems?’
‘Whatever it is that’s troubling you.’
Robert was almost as perceptive as Cassie had been.
‘Most of my troubles are so totally beyond solution that I have abandoned even thinking about them,’ I said lightly. ‘Every farmer has worries. The weather, the work-force, the bills to be paid… Let’s talk about something more amusing. Ladies, do step out a little more or we shall never get there.’
I drew Felicity and her sisters round me, and laughed and joked to dispel any hint of unease. Perhaps Basil had been right to sense danger from Robert. He was an attractive man, physically strong yet kind and gentle. I found his company disturbing.
Next day he came again to the farm, without any of his sisters, and he found me equally alone – I had let Violet have an afternoon free; she was walking out with the grocer from Dersingham and he had taken her to the beach. I believed I had mentioned this possibility to Robert the previous day.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ he agreed with a grin that dimpled one brown cheek. He stood in my hallway, hat in hand, broad and smiling, long fair hair touched with sunlight. His voice was light tenor, with a touch of a drawl that he had picked up while abroad. ‘I also know your husband’s away. That’s why I came – to see you alone. But I promise you, cross my heart and hope to die, I have no evil intent. In which case, may I come in? I’d like to talk to you.’
‘About what?’
‘Oh, this and that, you know. This and that.’
I sent Swift to fetch some apple wine, while I led the way into the conservatory. Outside, thick pink and white blossom decked the apple trees. The sun felt hot through the windows; potted plants made drifts of condensation on the glass. The patchwork cushions adorning the wicker armchairs had been made by Grace – a Christmas gift.
‘Would you care to sit down?’
‘Thanks.’ He sank down into one of the chairs, stretching out his long legs, lacing his fingers across his waistcoat and regarding me with his head on one side. ‘Well… so, what shall we talk about? Oh – Felicity said to tell you she had a letter from Chloe, who sends her kindest regards and hopes you’re well.’
Chloe, married now for a year or so, lived with her doctor husband along the coast at Cromer. ‘That’s sweet of her. Ask Felicity to send the same in return.’
We chatted idly for a while, about his sisters, about the farm…
‘You know,’ he said at length. ‘If you need someone to talk to, I’ve a willing ear and a strong shoulder.’
‘What makes you think I’m in need of a confidant?’
A slow smile warmed his eyes. ‘Well, are you?’
‘Certainly not. And if I were… I do have friends. Felicity in particular. Reverend Lancaster calls quite regularly. And there’s always Mama, and Narnie.’
‘When they’re here. Which isn’t often, so it appears. Strikes me they could be staying away to avoid that husband of yours. What’s wrong with the fellow? He’s jumpy as a hare in March. You know, I never thought you’d marry someone like him.’
‘Then who had you in mind?’
His grin turned wry. ‘Me, mostly.’ And then he laughed. ‘Well, a boy can have dreams. To me you were special. I’d have killed for you.’<
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‘What nonsense,’ I chided. ‘Blatant flattery.’
‘It’s simple truth. I did once come to blows over you. Got my nose bloodied.’
‘By whom?’
‘My brother. Hal.’
A pulsating silence spread between us. All trace of humour had gone from his face. He was trying to tell me something – something I had no wish to hear.
Then the door slammed open, startling us both. Basil was there, his face dark with anger, his presence like a draught of cold air. ‘I knew it,’ he snarled. ‘I knew it! Can’t leave you alone five minutes, can I? Every time I go out of this house, there’s some man waiting to sneak in behind my back.’
Robert shot to his feet, outraged. ‘Now look here, Pooley—’
My husband stepped away from the door. ‘Out. Out! And don’t come back. You’re not welcome here.’
‘He’s entirely welcome!’ I exclaimed, getting up from the chair.
‘Not to me, he’s not. And I’m the master here, remember? Remember?’
Robert looked at me, frowned, and decided not to interfere between us. But he left without hurry, coming to where I stood, taking my hand in farewell.
‘Out!’ Basil said.
With a final worried look, to which I replied with a little shrug – ‘don’t concern yourself, it will pass’ – Robert left.
Shaking my head, I let go of a weary sigh. ‘He was only paying a neighbourly call. He’s a friend – a very old friend. There was no harm in my entertaining him alone for five minutes.’ The only reply was a black frown. ‘I’m tired of this, Basil. So very tired. It’s not as if you really care. You’re just looking for a quarrel. Please… Can’t we find some way to—’
Glowering at me, he thrust the door closed and said in a low voice filled with hate, ‘I always knew you were a whore!’
The charge made me flinch as though he had hit me.
‘Don’t deny it!’ he roared, making a vicious, chopping gesture. ‘That’s why you went to Brighton. You were sent away for whoring.’
Dismay sent my thoughts scattering. ‘Basil…’
‘Everybody knew it. Everybody! Except me. I didn’t let myself believe it. I worshipped you. You…’ He looked me up and down, a sneer contorting his features. ‘You with your high and mighty ways. Miss Rose Hamilton. Viscount Colworth’s granddaughter. Too good for me, weren’t you? Wouldn’t look twice at Basil Pooley, except to make use of me. No, you had your sights set a lot higher. As high as the throne of England.’
Not that again. ‘You’re mad,’ I said tiredly.
‘Then what about Devlin?’
That name came like a slap. Guilt wrapped its coils about my vocal chords and threatened to strangle me, but Basil was too caught up in his own temper to notice my reaction.
‘I’ve not forgotten how he stood up for you that time – in front of the prince and all,’ he raged. ‘I always thought it was queer. Well, this time you were seen, blast you! Strolling on his arm in the Walks, for all the world to see. People couldn’t wait to tell me. Couldn’t wait!’
In the Walks… Thank God that was all. ‘I was not on his arm,’ I denied hoarsely. ‘We were talking. As neighbours will. How people do twist things. Didn’t your informant tell you that Aunt Beatrice was there, too?’
But he wasn’t interested in facts. What scorched him was not that I might have been unfaithful, but that people were talking.
He struck out at a plant pot on a ledge, pushing it to topple and fall with a crash that made me cover my ears. Shards of earthenware scattered, soil spilled and rolled. Basil walked through it, coming for me, saying through his teeth, ‘Blast you, Rose! You’ve made me look a proper fool!’
I didn’t see the blow coming. I just felt the force of his fist against the side of my face. It sent me reeling. A slap jerked my head the other way. My foot caught in the chair leg. I toppled and, trying to save myself, brought down another plant. Dazed, I lay amid the crushed foliage.
‘Get up!’ he commanded. ‘What would your father say if he could see you? Rose Mary Hester Hamilton. Look at you, lying in the dirt.’
‘Down at your level,’ I muttered. Hating him with a soul-deep loathing, I got to my knees and, with the help of a chair, started to pull myself up.
‘Nobody would blame me if I divorced you,’ he said. ‘Then we’d find out the truth once and for all. How would you like to have your history examined in court, eh?’
Dizziness swirled round me as I gained my feet. All too clearly I could see myself in court, having my past recounted in lurid detail: the rumours about Hal Wyatt, my recent association with Geoffrey… it would all be uncovered. Disgrace for Geoffrey, misery for Lucy – and ruination for me. Any jury of decent, God-fearing citizens would damn me to a living hell. For I was the woman taken in adultery.
‘You wouldn’t dare!’
‘Wouldn’t I, though?’
‘I’d fight you all the way. And all your own skeletons would come rattling into the open. Are you so lily-white that you’ll risk that, Basil?’
It was pure bravado, firing arrows into mist, but something struck home with greater severity than I had expected. His ruddy face went sickly pale, then flushed scarlet as the blood came rushing back and his eyes bulged with fury. Muttering obscenities, he turned and stamped away, slamming the door behind him. I heard the front door slam violently, too. Basil was gone.
Trembling, I sank into a chair, my head in my hands until the tremors passed and my head cleared. Basil, too, had things to hide, it seemed. I suppose I had suspected it. Whatever the truth, neither of us dared risk the exposure of a divorce court. So we must remain bound together: stalemated, and stale-mated. Until death…
Thank God for the farm, and practical problems. Hard as it was to keep going, the work kept me sane.
When Basil came home after three days, we went about our lives in separate silences. In bed at night he lay so that he didn’t have to touch me. I couldn’t sleep. I lay awake hour upon hour, drained to exhaustion for fear of what he might be planning.
I began to think that the only answer was to leave him, once the farm was safe in Johnny’s hands. With my responsibility for Orchards dispensed with, I would be free to go where I pleased – even if it meant leaving with my reputation in permanent ruins, going into exile and disgrace again, this time for ever.
Of one thing I was sure – rather than risk dragging him, and Lucy, down into the mire with me, I must never see Geoffrey again.
* * *
Mama and Narnie returned to Orchards briefly but, sensing the sour atmosphere, took the first opportunity to return to Thetford. Their excuse was to be present for Tommy’s fourth birthday. It had, however, become obvious that Mama much preferred to be with Grace. Since Father died, the farm was full of hurtful memories for her. But she also enjoyed life in town, and the social status which the Turnbull name ensured was more to her taste than the workaday farm.
I felt ever more isolated.
It seemed almost the final straw when His Royal Highness, chancing to pass me in the lane during one of his brief respites at his country home, rather than cheerily greeting me with a smile and a flirtatious remark, glowered, grunted and rode by.
I was soon informed by my friends in the villages that the prince had been heard to cut dead someone who mentioned my name. ‘He say, “I prefer not to be reminded of that there lady,” he say.’
What had I done now?
It was Mr Lancaster who told me that the Waleses’ heir, young Prince Albert Victor, had developed a fever after a weekend at Sandringham. Tainted drinking water was held to be the cause. Someone had sought to ingratiate himself with the Prince of Wales by inferring that, the spring supplying his water being on my land, I must be responsible for contaminating it.
The agent, Mr Beck, called at the farm in a hopping rage. He had discovered a manure heap seeping only yards away from the spring in Poacher’s Wood. Knowing nothing about this, I was horrified. But McDowall, called t
o answer to the land agent, claimed that he had specifically asked me if I was sure I wanted the manure dumped there.
‘Ye told me it was all right. I don’t recall ye mentioning the spring. Maybe ye forgot it was there.’
‘Then it was up to you to remind me – if you told me at all.’
He looked the picture of injured loyalty. ‘I did so tell ye! Och, but ye’ve not been yersel’ lately, one way and another. I blame mysel’. I should’ve realised ye weren’t thinkin’ clearly. Aye, it’s my fault, Mr Beck. I’ll get the heap moved right away.’
Somehow, while gallantly taking the blame, he managed to make me look like a muddle-headed, incompetent, emotional female, if not a downright liar. I knew Mr Beck had taken the point. Word would go back to the prince – yes, Mrs Pooley had been up to her tricks again.
‘That chap Beck want shootin’,’ George Pooley commiserated when I told him. ‘He have it in for you and no mistake. Me too I shouldn’t wonder. Got a big black mark across my name – in the prince’s book, any road.’
‘Why, what have you done?’ I asked.
It appeared that His Royal Highness had sent his agent to make an offer for Mr Pooley’s best game coverts in Blackthorn Wood, which adjoined a part of the Sandringham estate. But Pooley was an old-fashioned sportsman. He liked to go out with a few friends, a few good dogs, and enjoy a day’s sport in leisurely, gentlemanly fashion, giving the game a fair chance to hide. He shared my revulsion for the great battues favoured by the prince. Shoots at Sandringham were more like wholesale butchery. So he had refused the royal offer.
‘I say no. “Not at any price,” I say. So he want to lease the wood, and I say “No” again. So he say, “All right, Pooley, we’ll rent that off of you by the season,” he say. “That you will not,” say I. “That’s not for sale, nor lease, nor lend. Not for love nor money.” “Well, His Royal Highness won’t be best pleased to hear that,” he say, and I say, “I don’t care whether he’s pleased or not, that wood have been in my family for nigh on five hundred year and in my family that will stay.” And so it will, least while I’m here to see to it.’