ANNE MELVILLE
Grace Hardie
Contents
Part One
A House for Grace Hardie 1898–1900
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Part Two
Death at Greystones 1903
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Part Three
Aunt Midge 1908
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Part Four
First Love 1913–1914
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Part Five
Brothers in Arms 1914–1917
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Part Six
Christopher 1917–1919
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Part Seven
Family Secrets 1920
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Part Eight
Mistress of Greystones 1927
Chapter One
Chapter Two
A Note on the Author
Part One
A House for Grace Hardie 1898–1900
Chapter One
On a day of Indian summer in 1898 Richard Beverley, Marquess of Ross, travelled to Oxford to see his great-grandchildren for the first and last time.
As the carriage approached Magdalen Bridge he knocked with his stick to indicate that the coachman should bring the horses to a halt. He had given no notice of the visit, and an unexpected guest was under no obligation to be punctual. After the footman had lowered the step and helped him down, he stood for a moment on the pavement without moving, leaning heavily on his stick until he was sure that his balance was steady.
Even so early in the evening a mist was rising from the river, stroking Magdalen’s tower with wispy white fingers. The wandering scholars of the Middle Ages who came to rest in Oxford chose for the home of their new university a place surrounded by water, dank and unhealthy, an area of swamps and fevers. The marquess, who as a young man in the eighteen-thirties had spent four riotous years at Christ Church, remembered his undergraduate days as a period of golden sunshine; but he was old enough to recognize that such memories were created by youthful high spirits and energy, not by climate.
Now he could feel the dampness of the air attacking his bones, and see its chill turning his breath into plumes of mist. It would not do for him to remain long in the city. To a man in his eighty-sixth year, danger came in many disguises.
At a good steady pace he stomped across the bridge, the tapping of his stick echoed by the hooves of the carriage horses just behind him. He walked past Magdalen and past Queen’s before halting to stare across the High at a row of three shops. A tailor, a wine merchant, a tobacconist. As an undergraduate he had been in debt to them all, and had for forty years or more afterwards continued to patronize their London establishments.
One year he had given up tobacco for Lent and, finding himself the better for it, had never placed another order. More recently, taking note that he had more than enough clothes to last him for the rest of his life, he had also ceased to call at Savile Row.
Wine was a different matter. Although he himself drank little but brandy these days, he regarded it as an obligation to buy the best of the new vintages each year and lay them down for his sons. But no longer from The House of Hardie. It was The House of Hardie which had robbed him of his heart’s delight.
‘Pretentious rubbish!’ he muttered to himself, studying the mock-gothic letters above the unrevealing dark green glass of double bow windows. The House of Hardie, indeed! A shop that had been in business since 1710 was still, in 1898, only a shop.
A family of tradesmen might hand down expertise and commercial good sense through six generations. They might become prosperous, and well-respected within their own social circles. But they remained where they had begun – in trade. When a girl of good family, a Beverley, eloped with the son of her grandfather’s wine merchant, society was right to be scandalized. The girl’s brother was justified in refusing to allow her any share of the estate left by their parents. And the girl’s grandfather was in honour bound to close his account with The House of Hardie.
It was less easy, though, to rule off affection. Ten years had passed since he last saw Lucy, and he had never in word or deed recognized the existence of any of her children. But silence and neglect could not kill his love. A few days earlier, giving orders for the planting of a new chestnut avenue at Castlemere, he had been startled by a new thought. For eighty-five years he had enjoyed almost unbroken good health. It was, nevertheless, possible that he would not live for ever. He wanted to see Lucy again before he died.
In his youth the marquess had fathered three sons – blond babies who grew up to be wild boys before maturing imperceptibly into sober middle age and grey-haired dignity; the future marquess, a general, and a dean. Sons to be proud of, if he had ever thought to consider the matter. But it was his daughter Rachel who had been his darling for all the twenty-three years of her life.
He had allowed her to marry one of her brother’s fellow-officers for love, making a handsome settlement so that she could continue to travel and dance and hunt and look beautiful in the style to which she was accustomed. And when, only three years after the wedding, she died giving birth to her second child, the pain of his loss stunned him, so that for many months he could hardly bear to mix with anyone who was happy.
But the baby, Lucy, survived to be his only granddaughter. As golden-haired as her mother, impulsive and extravagantly generous in her love, she warmed his heart into life again. The two motherless children were brought up at Castlemere while their father continued his military career, and they remained there after his death. It was at Castlemere that the trouble had begun.
The marquess recognized his own contribution to the disastrous events of 1887. He had summoned his wine merchant, John Hardie, to inspect the cellar books and advise on new purchases. The two men had known each other for twenty years. It did not seem an impertinence when Hardie’s son, attending with his father to note what was decided, enquired whether he might be permitted afterwards to inspect the herb garden for which Castlemere was famous. The young man, it appeared, although destined one day to inherit his father’s business, had a passionate interest in botany.
From that moment on, everything had happened at breakneck speed. It was not surprising that young Gordon Hardie, catching sight of Lucy as she painted in the herb garden, should have thought her the most beautiful girl in the world, because this was undoubtedly the case. But neither the marquess nor his grandson Archie, Lucy’s brother, ever discovered exactly how the two young people had contrived to further their acquaintance. In no time at all, it seemed, Lucy was demanding that she should be allowed to marry Gordon Hardie.
Naturally, permission was refused. The marriage was unsuitable on all counts. Besides, she was proposing to accompany this headstrong young man on a journey of explorati
on to Central Asia to look for new seeds and plants, or some such rubbish. It was a preposterous plan for a young woman brought up with every comfort wealth could buy. Archie, as his sister’s guardian, laid down a decisive veto, making it clear that if she were to defy him she need never expect to see her family again, nor to receive a penny piece from them as long as she lived. He appealed for his grandfather’s support in this declaration and was given it.
The marquess did not expect, as he nodded in agreement, that he was pledging himself never to see his favourite grandchild again. He assumed that when she found the two men she most respected to be united in their disapproval, she would see sense and abandon her fantasies in favour of a London season.
Five weeks later Lucy ran away from home. The marquess had not seen her since. The letter in which she informed him of her marriage was posted in Shanghai. A later letter, announcing the birth of her son, had been written with pride when she should have been ashamed and apologetic, and her grandfather had been too hurt and angry to answer.
Other babies followed: a second son, twin boys, a girl. He reminded himself that The House of Hardie was a thriving business; and on the death of John Hardie in his fifties, his only son had become its proprietor. Nevertheless, it was difficult to dismiss from the imagination a picture of a harassed young woman with five children tugging at her skirts. Her brother, it was certain, would never speak to her again. But an old man might be excused his moment of sentimentality. The Marquess of Ross had come to Oxford to forgive Lucy for the pain she had caused him. And perhaps to say goodbye.
Half an hour later, standing with his legs apart in front of the drawing room fire, the marquess stared at his granddaughter with an intentness which made her flush. Like all the Beverley women she was golden-haired and very tall. She had been a beautiful girl who should by now have matured into an elegant woman; but instead her appearance was dishevelled. He had to remind himself that she had not expected a visitor; and it appeared that she had been playing with her sons when the doorbell rang.
‘When do you expect your husband home?’ he asked, after the first startled and awkwardly restrained moments of reunion were over. He had no wish for a meeting with Gordon Hardie.
‘In five or six months.’ Lucy laughed to see that her grandfather had not expected such an answer. ‘He’s gone back to China. Our expedition together was a great success, you know. One of the lilies he found was awarded a gold medal. And his work on the propagation of new rhododendron species has been much praised. He was invited to return and explore the higher valleys, and to bring back an even greater variety of rhododendron seeds.’
‘So that’s what all your dreams of excitement have come to!’ growled the marquess. ‘Your husband has all the adventures while you sit at home alone.’
‘With five young children –’ began Lucy, but her grandfather interrupted her.
‘Oh yes, yes, of course. You can’t go gadding about any longer: no need to explain that. But anyone could have told you that’s what would happen. You wouldn’t listen, though, would you?’
‘If I had stayed at Castlemere,’ said Lucy, her voice quietened by self-restraint. ‘If I had then married the son of some suitable duke, I might still be the mother of five children today – living more luxuriously, perhaps, but still bound by all the restraints of society. And then I should never have had those two years in the mountains. Travelling so far; experiencing so much. What I saw and learned during that expedition with Gordon is something that I have in my memory for the rest of my life, something I could never have found in England or Europe – something that no one will ever be able to take away.’
She stood up and took a turn up and down the room before facing her grandfather again. ‘I’m sure that you and Archie were sincerely trying to protect me when you forbade me to marry Gordon,’ she said. ‘And I understand that you were hurt as well as angered by my disobedience. I was sorry to lose your love as well as Archie’s, Granda, because I hoped perhaps … but then, I know that the family is more important than any single member of it. What I’m trying to say –’ She needed to struggle with the words before looking him full in the face. ‘You and Archie had the right to be angry with me, and unforgiving. I shall never complain about that. But you are not to be sorry for me, because I have a husband whom I love and who loves me. And five dear, loving children. And now that I’ve seen my darling Granda again, I’m the happiest woman in the world.’
The marquess studied her flushed face in silence. He didn’t believe her claim to be happy, but he approved of the courage with which she made it. She had chosen her own life, and it was right that she should hold her head high in defending her choice. He held out a hand and at once she was in his arms.
They were interrupted by the arrival of her four sons in the drawing room. Their sleekly brushed hair, scrubbed and polished cheeks and identically neat sailor suits made it clear that the past half hour had been a busy one on the nursery floor. Like a monarch inspecting his troops the marquess passed along the line, acknowledging introductions.
‘This is Frank.’ The eldest boy, seven years old, was the only one of the four to have inherited the thick golden hair with which most Beverley children were born. He was a sturdy, pleasant-faced lad, who put out his hand to be shaken with an almost military precision.
‘Philip.’ Philip was dreamier, staring at his great-grandfather with a slightly anxious intensity, as though trying to calculate what the importance of this unexpected visit might be. Perhaps he had not known of the marquess’s existence until that evening.
‘Kenneth and David.’ The four-year-old twins were not identical. Kenneth, brown-haired and freckled, fidgeted restlessly, looking down at the carpet, whilst David stared steadily at the visitor with dark, intelligent eyes. His hair was very dark as well: almost black. Hardie hair, Hardie eyes.
The marquess grunted his acknowledgement of the introductions, asking each of the four no more than a polite ration of questions. He had no great interest in small boys and nothing he wished to say to them. It was a relief when their mother told them that they could go.
‘There’s another one,’ he said when he and Lucy were alone together once more. ‘A girl.’
‘Grace. Yes. She’s in bed. Not very well. Would you like to see her?’
‘Might as well, while I’m here.’ He followed his granddaughter up two flights of stairs, pausing at the first landing window to catch his breath while pretending to study the view. The grounds of the house, he saw, sloped down to the river – it must be the River Cherwell here, rather than the Thames. No wonder the place smelt damp and musty. But Lucy had paused to wait for him. He hauled himself up the narrower stairs which led to the children’s floor.
A fire was burning in the nursery. The nurse who had been sitting beside it rose with a rustle of skirts as Lucy opened the door and led the way across the room.
The marquess looked down at his sixteen-month-old great-granddaughter. A pair of round black eyes looked back at him. They were bright, lively eyes – their darkness emphasized by the pallor of her face.
Even if he had not been able to see her ill-health, he could hear it, for she was fighting for each breath, gasping to gulp in the air before wheezing it out again. Seeing a stranger, she tried to sit up in her cot, but was imprisoned by the tightly-tucked blankets. The effort made her cough and her little hands pushed at the bedclothes as she tried to free herself. But she was smiling at him even through her struggles.
‘Lie still, there’s a good little girl,’ said the nurse; but the marquess shook his head, disapproving of the instruction.
‘She’d be more comfortable sitting up. Pillows behind her, that’s what she needs.’ He loosened the blankets himself, and reached out with the intention only of raising the child into a sitting position. But Grace, seeing his hands stretched towards her, held out her own arms, smiling. Much to his own surprise, the marquess picked the little girl up and held her.
Now, so close, he co
uld hear the bubbling and wheezing with which each breath fought its way through her chest. He lifted her higher, to lie over his shoulder, so that her head hung down and her arms dangled towards the ground. With one hand he held her legs, while the other stroked her back, pressing it gently but firmly.
For a moment or two her coughing increased and she panted even faster for breath. But within moments she was calm again. The marquess was conscious of her small body relaxing into confidence and contentment. Yet even in the rigidity of her struggle for breath, he realized, she had not been frightened. She was a fighter; too young to understand that there were moments when it was better not to struggle but to lie back and wait for easier times.
The nurse, although disapproving, had piled up pillows in accordance with his instructions. Stiffness made it hard for him to bend easily, but the marquess did his best to be gentle as he set the little girl back in her cot and covered her warmly but loosely with the blankets.
Lucy, he noticed, had tactfully turned her back and was holding the nurse in conversation, as though guessing that he might not wish to be discovered in a gesture of sentimentality. Leaning over, he kissed his great-granddaughter on the forehead. Then, with a nod to the nurse, he made his way down to the drawing room again.
‘Didn’t like the sound of that chest,’ he said to Lucy. ‘Had the doctor, I suppose?’
‘Yes. He doesn’t seem able to do anything. We should try mountain air, he said last time he came. When Gordon gets home again –’
‘He should be home now. What does he think he’s doing, leaving you with all the responsibility of a sick child?’
‘He doesn’t know.’ Lucy’s chin tilted upwards with the firmness which he remembered from her youth as she turned to look straight at him. ‘He left England seven months before Grace was born.’
‘Didn’t you tell him of your condition?’
Grace Hardie Page 1
