Only Richard was contented. He took Prince out on errands for Mama and for John, and he checked the stock, the cows and sheep, from the far side of their gates without mishap.
And I? I was in a frenzy of anxiety. I was waiting for James. When Clary’s funeral was over, I stopped Jimmy Dart at the gate of the church and asked him to seek out James at his father’s offices in London. I had a gold coin inside my glove and I gave him it for the coach fare.
‘Tell him not to come to the Dower House,’ I said quietly. Richard was helping Mama into the carriage and had his back to me. ‘Tell him I want to see him privately. I will meet him in Midhurst, in the private room at the Spread Eagle Inn. Tell him I will be there, on Tuesday, at ten o’clock.’
‘Spread Eagle, Tuesday, ten o’clock,’ said Jimmy promptly. ‘I won’t fail you, Miss Julia. And neither will Mr James, I’ll be bound.’
I looked at him quickly, and blinked away the haze of sudden tears. ‘Do you think so, Jimmy?’ I asked.
Jimmy looked surprised. ‘Why, yes, Miss Julia,’ he said. ‘Anyone could see!’
I glanced again towards the carriage. Richard was waiting for me, smiling his bright secretive smile. ‘I must go,’ I said quickly. ‘You’ll catch the early stage?’
‘I’ll be in London by noon,’ Jimmy promised. ‘And I’ll find him wherever he is.’
I gave him a little smile and then turned for the carriage.
Then I waited. I waited, and worried.
James had thought that his own unchastity was wrong. Wrong, but forgivable. I was gambling all that I had on one thought, that he loved me enough to forgive me one terrible error, just as I had loved him enough to forgive him. But it was a big gamble. It was everything I wanted.
I was no angel! The thought of saying nothing at all and marrying him as if I were an untouched bride went through my mind. But truly, I think it went through my mind only once. During those waiting days I knew for certain that I only wanted to marry James with honesty and honour between us.
But I did not know how much I dared to tell him. I picked it over, like a woman picking lice out of old rags. I could tell him I had been forced. But I must also tell him that I lay on my back and smiled. I scorched with shame at that memory, and I knew I could never tell him of it. Or anyone. I could tell him it was rape, but he would want to know if I knew the criminal. But I could not tell him it was Richard. I was as fixed on that point as I had been the very afternoon when the lie of a fall from a horse was first told. But if I told him of the rape and said I did not know the man, I should have to invent a whole string of tales about how and where it happened. And why I had not told my mama.
I seemed to have no solutions, no solutions at all, just more and more problems until I started the round again of thinking that I could certainly tell him I had been forced.
On Monday night I did not sleep. At midnight I wrapped my blanket around me and sat in my window-seat and watched the moon travel across a cloudless silvery sky. The circular nagging worry went around and around in my head until I leaned back against my shutter and closed my eyes against the glare of the moon and the drumming of my fear that I would lose James, that I did not know how to hold him. I did not know the words which would make him forgive me. He was the only man I had ever loved, would ever love. And I did not know where to begin to keep his love.
I slept then, cramped on the window-seat, my head against the shutter. I awoke at dawn, chilly and stiff for my pains. I could not sleep again, but put on my grey riding habit in the half-light and washed my face in the cold water in my ewer, and sat in my window-seat again and listened to the birds starting to sing.
At six o’clock I thought I might go down to the stables and saddle Misty. I wanted to avoid my mama and Uncle John this morning. Most of all I wanted to escape the notice of Richard. I was in real fear of meeting Richard this morning, and I was longing for James.
I was awkward, saddling Misty with one hand. But she whinnied when I gave her a carrot from my pocket, and that summoned Jem in his dirty flannels from the stables.
‘You can’t ride one-handed,’ he said, scandalized.
‘You know Misty is as gentle as anything. I can manage her, if you would just get the saddle on for me, Jem.’
‘And where d’you think you’re going?’ he demanded truculently.
I looked at him, irresolute, and then my lower lip trembled and I told him the truth. ‘I have to meet James Fortescue,’ I said baldly. ‘We may have to call off the wedding. I have to go and see him this morning, Jem. Please help me.’
His brown face at once creased into tenderness. ‘Your fine young man, Miss Julia?’ he asked tenderly. ‘I’ll drive you there in the carriage, of course.’
‘No,’ I said quickly. ‘No. I don’t want Mama or Uncle John to know. Nor Richard. Not anyone. Just get Misty ready for me and tell them I wanted an early ride, and that I could handle her. Please, Jem.’
He paused. ‘Take her carefully, then,’ he said. ‘I can’t think how you came to fall the last time.’
‘I misjudged a jump,’ I said. ‘She didn’t throw me. Please put the saddle on her, Jem. I am so afraid of being late.’
He took it from the stable door and swung it on her back, and then slid her bridle on. He led her into the yard and put both hands on my waist to lift me up into the saddle.
‘Go easy now,’ he said again. ‘What time do you have to be in Midhurst?’
‘At ten,’ I said.
Jem looked at me incredulously. ‘Miss Julia, come down and get some breakfast. You don’t need to leave for three hours yet!’
I smiled ruefully. I think it was the first time I had smiled all week since May morning. ‘I can’t eat!’ I said. ‘And I couldn’t sleep either. I thought I’d ride over the common for a while and then down to Midhurst that way.’
Jem smiled at me. ‘Good luck, then, Miss Julia. A man would be a fool to let a maid like you go, and your Mr Fortescue knows it. Good luck. I’ll tell them you’re riding and won’t be back till noon.’
I gathered the reins in my one good hand, and Misty moved delicately out of the yard, loud on the cobbles, but silent on the grass outside the bedroom windows. Then I trotted her up the drive and turned right to go to the common to ride away the hours before I needed to turn her head towards Midhurst.
I was still too early, even after riding in a great sweep from our common land over to Ambersham. I was still too early by half an hour. But I was thirsty now, so I handed her to the ostler and went in by the stable door.
They knew us in Midhurst and greeted me by name. I said that I was meeting a friend from London and that I should like coffee in their private parlour while I waited. The landlord showed me in and lit the fire in the grate, though the room was warm. I sat in the window-seat and sipped from my cup.
It was a pretty room, overlooking a little patch of garden at the back which was bright with Maytime flowers. I would rather have been in the taproom, which had a view over the stable yard. But, though I could not see James’s arrival, I knew he would be here soon. I waited.
The clock ticked on the mantelpiece. It seemed to be very slow. I checked it against my own little watch, which John had bought me, a tiny copy of his own on a chain like his. The clock was slow, by a couple of minutes. I put a finger under the minute-hand and pushed it up a little. Then I thought of advancing the time by half an hour and pretending to be angry with James for being late. But then, with a great swoop of apprehension, I remembered that we might not be on jesting terms. I went back to my seat and sat down, and waited.
I heard the clatter of the stage from the yard; the ten o’clock coach had arrived from Chichester. I knew at once it could not be James. The noise of the stage with the passengers bawling for drinks and food was unmistakable. I checked the clock and my watch. The stage was a little early, for it was not ten o’clock yet. James could come within the next three or four minutes and still be on time.
I wished I had brought a
book, or something to distract me from the slow movements of the hands of the clock. It seemed to time my thoughts as they went around to its rhythm. Tick…I shall tell him I am dishonoured. Tock…I shall tell him I was unwilling. Tick…I shall refuse to name the man. Tock . . . that will make him very angry. Tick…if he is angry, he may not believe I was unwilling. Tock…I was not completely unwilling, not at first. Tick . . . no! I was unwilling as soon as I knew it was Richard. Tock…I must remember not to say Richard’s name. Tick . . . whatever happens, I must not say Richard’s name.
There were footsteps outside the door and ‘I leaped to my feet, the colour rushing into my face. It was Mr Jeffries, the landlord. Not James. Not James at all.
‘Just come for the coffee-tray, Miss Lacey,’ he said. ‘Coming post, your friend, is she?’
I stammered a reply.
‘Late anyway,’ Mr Jeffries said cheerfully. ‘I expect you are sorry to be indoors on a day like this, and it’s a busy time on Wideacre, I hear.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Mr Jeffries, would you bring another pot of coffee, please? And two cups this time. My friend will be here at any moment, I am sure.’
I waited for the coffee. I waited for James. There was a creeper growing up outside the window and it tapped on the glass softly, as soft as a kitten patting a ball of wool; but in the silence of each moment I could hear it. The sunshine was streaming through the window and little motes of dust danced in the beam. The carpet was faded around the window, where the sunshine of countless summers had bleached it. It was worn thin in a little track from the door to the table where landlord and serving wench had walked. I felt I had been in the little room all my life. I felt I would have to stay there for ever.
The clock on the mantelpiece chimed a quarter chime. James was late.
In all our time in Bath he had never been late to see me. He was always there whenever I arrived. He told me once that he often waited for as long as an hour for me. I thought he must have found the roads harder going than he had expected. Or perhaps a horse had gone lame. But then I heard the door from the stable yard bang and my heart leaped. Footsteps came down the corridor and I stood unsteadily and walked towards the table waiting.
The footsteps walked past the room. It was not James.
The coffee came, and I sat beside the cooling pot and watched a blackbird on the patch of grass, making little runs and then freezing in silence, head cocked, listening to sounds which no one but he could hear.
The chime of the half-hour sounded very loud. The coffee was luke-warm. I drank a cup. I would order a fresh pot when James came.
When James came.
I knew he would come. I knew it was not possible that he should not come, just as in my deepest heart I knew that if he came and I told him frankly and truly what had happened to me, he would forgive me. I trusted him, I trusted my love for him, and his for me.
The clock ticked. The blackbird sprang forward, tugged a worm out and carried it triumphantly away in his beak.
The clock chimed the full three-quarters of the tune. It was quarter to eleven. I bet with myself that he would be with me in five minutes. But at ten minutes to eleven he still had not come. I bet myself a hundred guineas that he would dash into the parlour at five minutes to eleven, covered with dust and full of apologies. But he did not.
The clock struck the full chimes, jangly, tedious, loud. Mr Jeffries put his head around the door.
‘There’s a gentleman here…’ he began.
‘James!’ I said certainly and got to my feet.
‘Says that the road from London is clear, and he has passed no post-chaise in the last twenty miles,’ Mr Jeffries went on. ‘Maybe your friend is not coming, Miss Lacey.’
‘I’ll wait another half-hour,’ I said. I could feel the blood draining from my face so fast that I thought I might faint. I sat down on the seat again and leaned my head against the window-pane. The glass was cold. In one pane someone had tried to cut their name with a diamond. It looked like Stephen something, and last year’s date.
It was twenty minutes past eleven.
At half past eleven Mr Jeffries came in to ask me if I would like to leave a message with him, and he would promise to deliver it, to save me the further inconvenience of waiting. I said I would wait until noon.
The clock ticked. The blackbird came back.
I said to myself that it was not possible, that James would not just not come. He would never simply fail to meet me. I had asked him to meet me here and he had agreed. He must have had an accident on the road and, instead of sitting here doubting him, I should be sending out people to search the road for him and bring him home safe to Wideacre. But in my heart I knew he had not had an accident. He was not coming.
It was half past twelve before I knew with certainty. Even then I might have seen his post-chaise with delight, not surprise. But at half past twelve, two and a half hours late for our appointment, I told myself he was not coming and I might as well go home.
I rose from the window-seat like an old woman, stiff and tired. He was not coming. He had known I was waiting for him and yet he had not come to me. What I should say to him now was a problem for the future. He was not coming today, though I had asked him to come and see me.
My arm was aching and I did not know if I would manage Misty on the ride home. I was as weary as if I had been riding around on the downs all the day. Misty would be fresh from her rest in the stables, and I would have trouble mounting her with only one hand.
I pinned on my hat and went out into the yard.
Richard was there.
He was sitting in Uncle John’s gig with the steadiest of the driving horses between the shafts, and Misty hitched with a halter to the back. He was stretched out in the driver’s seat with his smart boots crossed before him on the splashboard. The smoke from his cigar circled in the still air above his head. He turned when he heard the door shut behind me and got down, slowly taking his tricorne hat off and smiling his secretive smile.
‘What a long time you have been, my dear,’ he said kindly. ‘As I had some business to do myself in the inn, I thought I would wait for you. Your mama was concerned at you riding. She will be glad that we met and I could drive you home. Where shall we tell her we met?’
He took me by the waist and lifted me up into the gig before I could say a word, and then he flapped the reins on the horse’s back, tossed a coin to the ostler and drove us out of the yard.
I said nothing for a moment. Just seeing Richard there was a shock. But then I found my voice. ‘What are you doing here?’ I asked.
‘Business,’ Richard said as if he had business in a Midhurst inn every day of the week. ‘I had to see a man.’ He gave one of his sly giggles. ‘I had to deliver some letters to a gentleman,’ he said, ‘so I thought I would wait and drive you home. I thought you might be tired, coming out so early and with your hand still sore.’
‘I am,’ I said briefly. Indeed I was. I was so tired and disappointed I could have wept. All night, all week I had been readying myself to beg James to love me despite everything, and trying to prepare myself for his refusal. But nothing could have been worse than not seeing him.
Richard threw me a sideways glance which was as warm and as sympathetic as if he had known and cared for my despair. ‘Why don’t you take your hat off and let the wind blow in your face?’ he suggested kindly. ‘You’re looking so pale, little Julia.’
I did as he bid me and held the hat in my lap as we climbed the short hill out of Midhurst. Misty shied at a blowing piece of paper and her hooves clattered on the stones.
‘Better have a rest when you get home,’ Richard said sweetly. ‘You have shadows under your eyes, my darling. You look tired out.’
I tipped my head back so the sun fell on my face and made rosy patterns on my closed eyelids. ‘I am tired, for I could not sleep last night,’ I said.
‘You should have woken me,’ he said, making it seem the most reasonable thing in the world. ‘You
know I would not want you to be wakeful on your own. It is horrible being the only person awake in a house, isn’t it? Poor Julia. Did you feel very lonely?’
I did not answer him. I looked down at my wrist and at Uncle John’s meticulous strapping, and at the blue bruise which showed above the bandage. I thought of the man he was and the playmate he had been. I thought of his warm friendly tones now, and of his demented hiss of a voice in the summer-house. And I felt so much that I wanted to be safe from his anger, safe from his hatred. No one could keep me safe from Richard, not Mama, not Uncle John, not even Ralph. And now James was gone. I had loved and feared Richard for all my childhood and girlhood.
Now that James was gone, the brief period when I hardly noticed Richard at all seemed an interruption of the normal feelings: my base, cowardly, fearful affection.
‘You should not have hurt me,’ I said.
It was the only protest I ever made.
Richard chuckled and made no reply at all.
I was bundled into my bed on my return. Mama exclaimed at my paleness and wanted to know what wildness had got into me to make me ride out all day, only days after a bad fall. I submitted without protest. I had nothing to say. I stayed in bed for the afternoon, but after dinner I walked for a little in the front garden to see the flowers. The primroses were as mild a yellow as little butter-pats all along the path, and the pansies were as dark as velvet. I heard hoofbeats, but I did not run to the gate thinking of James. I knew that James would never come. It was Ralph.
He pulled his horse up at the garden wall and I went down the path towards him. He touched his hat to me, but his face was unsmiling. ‘I’ve come to tell you that I’ve given orders to bring Matthew Merry’s body home from Chichester gaol to be buried here. They’ve released the body at last.’
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