It was well past noon when Marianne completed a sketch of the rectory kitchen, and the cream-coloured sofa glowed in the full light of the sun. Marianne had shoved back the curtains to give herself better light, and now the room felt warm enough to hint at spring’s approach. She had drawn the kitchen exactly as she remembered it—slick with the grease no amount of scrubbing seemed to remove, cluttered with dirty dishes the maid had forgotten to wash. Now the warmth of the spring sun made the drawing come alive. Marianne could almost sense the incessant, stifling heat billowing from the stove, the thick, reeking smells of spoiling food her mother had ordered and then decided she disliked, the stickiness of the broom handle with which little Harriet had played after eating too much jam.
Marianne had drawn the kitchen because it was the room she hated most in the rectory. Usually she was elsewhere in the house minding the children, but when things grew especially chaotic and not even the practical housekeeper could manage it all, Marianne had to help out with the kitchen work while trying to keep her charges out of mischief. The kitchen meant failure: Marianne’s failure to make her mother understand how things were going awry, the household’s failure to shuttle on without frequent, minor rebellions of staff, her father’s failure to garner enough income to pay the respectable wages and purchase the properly functioning equipment that might transform the situation.
Marianne wanted to remind herself of that room for two reasons. The first was to solidify her determination never, never to return to it. She would settle into an exciting life in London, even if no gentlemen seemed particularly interested in her yet, because she had to. It was true that she was not yet as dazzlingly lovely as she had hoped new gowns and creams would make her. It was true that if she had any wit, it had yet to make an appearance in a drawing room. It was true that her music and dancing, despite endless lessons, appeared merely satisfactory, not deserving of breathless admiration. But these were obstacles that could be overcome, and would be overcome, so long as Marianne persevered. And if she recalled that ugly, grimy kitchen, Marianne was compelled to persevere.
The second reason was harder to admit. Part of her wanted to see the rectory again. Perhaps not that room especially, but it seemed the safest way to satisfy the unexpected nostalgia. At the beginning of her visit, her mother’s letters insisting she hurry home had irritated Marianne, while simultaneously enveloping her in guilt for pretending return was impossible. Now that those letters were sliding off into greater and greater infrequency, part of Marianne felt abandoned. It was horrible to think that her family did not value her for any particular taste or original talent, but only for minding her siblings. It was worse to imagine that perhaps she was not valued even for that anymore.
The glaze of sunlight on the page softened the black streaks of pencil into something poetic and almost pretty. That was the danger of nostalgia. It made the places of the past seem desirable simply because they were her past, part of what had shaped her to be who she was. Marianne pushed the sketchbook away from her on the gleaming cream brocade of the sofa. Her fingers traced the patterns in the brocade, and she found herself admiring how smooth and gentle her hands looked, thanks to Aunt Cartwright’s creams and weeks of avoiding scrubbing at the rectory. Looking up, she could see the delicate plaster scallops dotting the yellow walls with soft white curves, like expertly executed arabesques of frosting on a cake. Why think of the past when her present was so lovely, and the future likely even better? Perhaps all the inspiration she needed was the luxury spread around her, and her own dreams.
Whether in answer to her dreams or in challenge to them, the butler announced Mr Hearn. Marianne was too surprised to say anything before the butler bowed himself out and Mr Hearn came striding forward. He wore a dark green cutaway coat in superfine and a white cambric shirt, mostly hidden by a trim satin waistcoat. The hat he doffed was new, and the heavy golden watch-chain that hung from his waistcoat to his pocket dangled a few glittering seals and medallions. Marianne had never seen him in morning clothes before. They suited him.
“Miss Mowbrey,” he said, with a deep bow.
Marianne hastened to rise and curtsey. “My aunt is out,” she said, but she wondered if perhaps he had already known that. She had not seen him since the day he had nearly thrown himself into the river. Then, his eyes had been bloodshot and wild; today, they looked calm, though the irises were the same dark brown that threatened black. He did not sit down, but rather paced irresolutely.
“I prefer to speak to you alone, anyway, Miss Mowbrey.” At her blush, he smiled without mirth. “Now, none of that. You know I am not come to whisper pretty compliments in your ear. I came to apologise.”
That only made her blush more. It was true that she would have enjoyed hearing pretty speeches from him, especially as well as he was looking today, but it was hardly reassuring to hear awkward apologies instead. “Really, there is nothing you need say about it. You helped me, too, if you remember. I should not have been out walking at that hour.”
“Yes, why were you?” He ran a hand through his hair, and Marianne knew he was not asking out of interest, but rather to put off whatever he felt he had to say next.
“Aunt Cartwright said she needed me right away. I took her literally,” Marianne said. “She was disappointed that Mr Glass was moving. He has found better work elsewhere—Derbyshire, I think.”
“That is too bad, for Mrs Cartwright. But I suppose it will be better for Mr Glass. He occupied an uncomfortably in-between place in society here. I think only you and Mrs Cartwright were truly kind to him.” At this, Mr Hearn smiled with real warmth.
Marianne felt like a fraud. Perhaps it was not a bad time for a confession. It might put Mr Hearn more at ease, as embarrassed about the meeting on the bridge as he must be. “You think I was kind to him because I had compassion for his feelings, but I am afraid I was not thinking of any such thing. He spoke to me, and I had too little social grace to avoid talking back. If I had, I fear I would have been as cold to him asˮ—she almost said ‘the Stokeses,’ but quickly recovered—“as others were.”
“Ah. The victory goes to naivety, not virtue.” He sounded disappointed, but he let it go and returned to his purpose. “As I was saying, Miss Mowbrey, I owe you an apology. And an explanation, I think.”
Marianne shook her head, but he continued anyway. “I have not been myself recently. I have not been myself since arriving in London, really. I suppose I can be frank with you. In India, I amassed a large enough fortune that I felt sure I could return to Ireland and purchase Hearn Hall. I told you I was seeking to repurchase the family estate, did I not?”
“Yes.”
“It ought never to have left our family. It was humiliating that it ever did.” His voice became bitter, but abstractedly so, the way a voice changes when someone is reliving a painful memory. “My mother died of a fever when I was away at school. My father was plunged into despair. He took to drinking heavily, and gambling. I tried to stop him, but he did not seem to care about anything anymore. He dribbled away a lifetime of savings with drink, gaming, and such foolishness. He dragged our family name into the gutter, and then he died of drink.”
“I am sorry.” Marianne did not know what else to say.
“I often wonder if there was anything more I could have said to him, anything more I could have done. I tell myself there was nothing.”
“A son can rarely move his father,” she said with sympathy.
His hands clenched into fists. “The worst of it was that I could not repair the damage done to our name. He sold Hearn Hall and left me too little to buy it back. A family friend suggested I take a place in India and make my life there. I had no place in Ireland. And everyone there who knows the name Hearn, thinks of my drunken father gambling away his estate.” He paused. “I have so many happy memories of that house, Miss Mowbrey. I know you don’t care for Wrumpton, but I daresay there is some place you felt safe and loved and happy, where you played as a child and learned to love those
around you…”
In truth, Marianne did not really feel that way about the rectory, or any place from her childhood. But she supposed Aunt Harriet’s home was like that for her. A second childhood. A happier one. “I believe I know what you mean.”
“Once I had enough money from India, I came at once to buy it back. But it had fallen into the hands of a London man, one with a grudge against me. You know him.” At Marianne’s blank look, he added, “Mr Lowes.”
“Mr Lowes owns Hearn Hall?” She supposed there was no reason why she should be so surprised. Mr Lowes was clearly wealthy and probably owned land in many places. She remembered Mr Lowes’s hints about country estates, and pleasant places in Ireland, as well as his occasional jeering looks at Mr Hearn. It was becoming clear. The boy who had plagued and bullied Frederick Lowes at school had lost his childhood home and—years later, in the course of business—Mr Lowes had purchased it, refusing to let go for the sake of a minor, piercing revenge. “How long has he had it?”
“He bought it from another owner two years ago. When I returned from India I offered him a fair price, but he refused to sell. Then I offered him a greater price, and a greater, and he still refused. But he would always hint that perhaps I could change his mind, or perhaps he would gamble me for it in the course of an evening. So he had me trailing along after his coattails, day in and day out, ever hopeful he would finally relent and let me buy it. I wish I could say I refused to beg him for it. But I have, and I will yet, if necessary. It belongs to me by right.”
“You are very attached to it, and understandably so, but I do not think you have a right to it,” Marianne said. She surprised herself with her bluntness.
“At any rate, I am going to get it back.” He did not seem offended by her words. “If Lowes gets drunk enough, he is sometimes willing to stake it in a game. I have lost the few times he has been willing to play for it, curse my luck, but I am bound to win someday if I can only keep him playing. I throw everything into that chance.”
He hesitated. “Alas, I have lost significant amounts trying to keep in with him. The night you saw me—I had just lost the amount I had set aside in case Lowes was willing to sell it properly. Now even if he chose to sell it in the ordinary way, I cannot afford it. The thought shamed me.” He struggled to damp down his emotion. “But I still have something left, and he is still willing to game for it, just to humiliate me further.” He gritted his teeth. “I shall follow him and smile and drink to his name as many times as he likes, so long as I win in the end.”
Marianne frowned. “No wonder you were upset. You lost the honourable means of buying it back, and you committed yourself to the dishonourable ones. Drinking and carousing with a man you hate, just because you hope he will get drunk enough to bet something he would not sell? You should never try to take something from someone’s wrong mind that he would be unwilling to grant you in his right mind.”
“My father would say it is all in the game.”
“From what I have heard, you are a better man than your father.”
Marianne felt a thrill of unease at his responding glower, but she held his gaze. From some place within herself, she felt certain he did not want her manoeuvres or diplomacy. He wanted her truth, perhaps because he could not face his own at the moment.
“I suppose you are going to say that you got discouraged by how hard it is to get your family home back, and that is why the river looked tempting,” she said coolly. “Perhaps that was part of it. But I think you are more disgusted by what you have become, chasing after this dream. It is a beautiful dream. But what you are becoming in its pursuit is not beautiful.” She paused. “Is there nothing else that interests you in life? You could find another country estate in Ireland easily enough. Or England.”
“It would not be the same.”
“Perhaps you like hunting? Shooting? Boxing?”
“Nothing like that.”
“Antiquities? Music?”
He shook his head impatiently. “I do not care much for those things, certainly not to fill a life with.”
Marianne hesitated. The brightness of intensifying sunlight that scattered over the room contrasted with the shadows haunting the creases in his face. She felt helpless to reach him. “Perhaps at the moment you are not in the right frame of mind to explore ideas, Mr Hearn. But something must come to your mind soon; we have only to wait for it. Getting Hearn Hall back again is not your problem.” His eyebrows rose, but he remained silent. “As you are now, you would only lose it again.”
“Lose it! I have made a muddle of my story if you think I would ever risk losing it again,” he said, his tone sharp.
“What habits are you forming? You think little of a life of gambling and drinking, yet you are devoting all your time to it. Probably a great deal of money, as well.”
The bitterness in his eyes was answer enough. “Lowes does not play for small stakes. I cannot deny I am losing money, day by day, but if in the end—ˮ
“If, in the end, you get your family property back, you will be completely unfit for it. You will be used to idle London hours. Your energies will be sapped. You will be accustomed to all the habits you despised in your father, and yet you think you will behave differently than he did. Did not he care for Hearn Hall, at one point? That did not protect him from wasting it when trouble came.”
“You are speaking of my mother’s death.” The crispness of his tones and the flush to his face were the only signs of his anger, but Marianne knew he was furious. “That was no ordinary trouble.”
“You did not contemplate the river because you were merely discouraged about getting Hearn Hall back. You hate the person you are becoming, Mr Hearn. And you have good reason, because the person you are becoming is not fit for Hearn Hall, and probably not able to keep it, either.”
He muttered a word improper for the company of ladies, which Marianne ignored. She sat in silence while he struggled with his ire. Perhaps he would hate her now and rush from the room, never to return. The thought terrified her.
“I am much obliged to you for sharing your opinions,” he said, sarcasm biting at her.
Marianne’s hands twisted in her lap. They were such soft, silky hands now, adorned with two pretty rings from the jeweller’s, but they felt useless to her.
“Perhaps you have forgotten the work I did in India. I managed supply trains, coordinated with the natives, and conciliated officials suffering from overinflated ideas of their importance, and I did all this in a climate and culture foreign to me. I am considered,” he continued, his tone dripping acid, “a capable and intelligent man. And when I tell you the desire of my heart, what I have worked toward for years—when I tell you how I have been striving every moment of every day to get it—you dare tell me I will throw it all to the winds somehow the minute I obtain it?”
“Which man will enjoy Hearn Hall? The one accustomed to complicated, difficult work in novel situations? He might be bored as a gentleman farmer. It is a simple life compared to India. What about the man who gambles and carouses in London? He assuredly would be bored, or else would go on carousing and lose everything.” She did not know why she continued to provoke him when she was already dreading the moment he would declare any friendship between them broken. Perhaps it was because she knew she was the only person in his life who would tell him the truth. “Seek this place you love so much, but do not destroy yourself in the process. You are ruining your own good character.”
“As if you have any right to say anything of the kind.” She knew his anger had reached a fever pitch when he became personal in response. “Making yourself petty and ridiculous simply to try and catch a husband, or to impress Miss Emily Stokes. Perhaps you are the one ruining whatever good qualities you may have had.” His lip curled with a sneer.
It would have been more satisfying to her pride to think that she remained quiet out of some moral duty of peacefulness, but Marianne was silent simply because her brain could not formulate any response. A heavy
weight pressed on her chest, and it took all her concentration not to cry. Whatever the reason, the pause did them both good. Mr Hearn paced back and forth a few times before he seemed to regain a hesitant composure.
“I came here to apologise, and now I have only created new things to apologise for,” he said. His dark eyes roved anywhere but at Marianne. It took effort for Marianne to clear her throat of the gurgled warning of tears, but she did it. Her voice was not quite clear, but it was presentable.
“I am the one who must apologise. I had no right to speak of your life that way. Or your mother. Or father. Or any of it.” She stared down at her hands.
Mr Hearn finally sat down, claiming one of the green damask chairs close to the sofa. “There might be a small element of truth in some of what you said,” he said. He did not elaborate, and Marianne asked no questions. She had trespassed into his privacy far enough for one day.
They sat in awkward silence for a moment, but Mr Hearn seemed to recover what aplomb he might have. “I only wanted to reassure you that you did not have to worry about—my behaviour. I am quite rational now.” A ghost of a smile passed over his features. “Although I might not have appeared so today.”
“I will not worry.” It was a lie. She did believe that he would not seek death anymore, but how could she fail to worry about him and the course his life was taking?
“Good.” His voice held a note of finality on the matter, and he turned to other topics. “Your aunt’s party this week was very pleasing. Everyone seemed to enjoy themselves.”
Flirtation & Folly Page 16
