Grace Hardie

by Anne Melville

  ‘I was hardly sure myself. And this expedition meant so much to him. It would all have been spoilt if he’d had to ask himself whether he should still go, or how long he should stay. He needs to remain in his collecting area for several seasons, so that he can find plants when they’re in flower and return later to collect the seeds. The journey itself is so long and difficult. Reaching Shanghai is only the beginning. The western areas of China, near the border with Tibet, are almost inaccessible, but that’s where he has to travel. And then he must establish a base and organize his various expeditions – to go for anything less than two years would be useless. It’s best, really, for him to be away for almost three. I understood that from the moment we first discussed it.’

  ‘But when your circumstances changed … By now, surely, he must know that he has another child.’

  Lucy’s eyes remained steady, refusing to accept any criticism either of her own behaviour or of her husband’s. ‘By now he may perhaps know,’ she agreed. ‘But I didn’t make any mention of the baby until Grace was six months old. Even then I could only write to the agent in Shanghai and hope that he has a forwarding address. I made it clear in my letters that I wanted Gordon to finish his programme. To make the important seed collections this autumn. I told him that everything was going well here.’

  ‘That was hardly the truth.’

  ‘What good would it do to worry him, at such a distance?’ cried Lucy. ‘And even if he were at home … We can’t just pack up and go off to Switzerland, not all of us; and Grace is too young to send anywhere on her own.’

  ‘There must be something in between. This house is damp. I can feel it in my bones. The whole city is damp. A few hundred feet could make all the difference. Higher air, a different aspect. Seems to me, Lucy, if you stay here, you’re going to lose her.’

  Lucy knew that already. He could see her eyes mist with tears that she would not allow herself to shed in front of him. Turning away, pretending not to notice, he called back into his memory that first glimpse of the child in her cot. It was possible, he supposed, that the brightness of her dark eyes was an indication of fever rather than of a lively intelligence, but there had been an outgoing cheerfulness in her look which impressed him.

  She was not, admittedly, a beautiful child. Her black hair had framed a pale complexion, bearing no resemblance to the blonde, rosy beauty of her mother and grandmother in their infancies. But the feel of her small warm body on his shoulder, rigid at first before relaxing into confidence and sleepiness – even the smell of her reminded him of the two little girls he had loved earlier in his life. In appearance she might be a Hardie, but a few drops of Beverley blood must flow in her veins. And it would be enough if he could banish the anxiety from her mother’s eyes.

  He laughed without explanation as he turned to face Lucy again. Years ago his father had said to him, ‘In every generation there’s one Beverley who goes off the rails.’ Lucy, without doubt, had been the member of her generation to show a lack of good sense. The marquess had never expected that he himself would act irrationally, but the thought growing in his mind was not one of which any other member of the family would approve.

  He had promised never to make any present to Lucy. He regretted the promise, but did not intend to break it. Still, there would be no breach of honour if he were to help one of her children. The boys, as far as he could tell, were intelligent and healthy; they could look after themselves. Little Grace Hardie, small and vulnerable, was the one at risk.

  What would become of her, if she lived? It had seemed easy enough to foretell a future for his daughter and granddaughter when they were in their cradles. They were destined to marry men of good breeding and then, as the wives of aristocrats, to become the mothers of aristocrats. On such sure foundations did the stability of society rest.

  Yet both his certainties had crumbled into misfortune. Rachel had died young and Lucy had eloped. Her daughter was a tradesman’s daughter, without expectations. If she was to make anything of her life, she would have to do it for herself, and it was hard to imagine how she would set about it in the future. But one thing was certain. If she were to be brought up in Oxford’s mists and miasmas, she was unlikely to have any future at all.

  ‘Get her out of here,’ he said abruptly. ‘Out of this swamp of a city. Find yourself a piece of land on a hill. Fast. While she and I are still alive. No need to worry about money. You’ll be hearing from my lawyers. Build her a house.’

  Chapter Two

  Four months after the death of the Marquess of Ross, two weeks after Gordon Hardie’s return to England and less than an hour after the end of term, Midge Hardie hurried to catch the Oxford train at Paddington. Her pupils would have been startled to see the athletic speed with which she moved, for within the school which she ruled as headmistress, Miss Hardie was regarded with awe.

  Whether taking morning assembly, presiding over a staff meeting or pressing her views upon the board of governors, Miss Hardie’s appearance when on the school premises was severe. Her petite figure and lack of inches – for she was only just over five feet tall – in no way detracted from her dignity. The dark hair strained off her face was plaited into neat coils; her tightly-fitted jackets and long skirts were invariably black in the winter and grey in the summer, worn with a high-necked white blouse. The girls could not imagine her dressed in any other style; nor could they believe that she had ever been young.

  Yet in 1899, six years after being appointed to her present post, Miss Hardie was only thirty-four years old. Each evening, when her day’s work was over, the gown into which she changed was likely to be as bright in colour as it was fashionable in style: greens and reds were her favourites, and she never wore black out of school. She accepted invitations to dances as readily as to dinners. When invited to stay with friends, she took her skates or tennis racquet with her, according to the season; and when, in each school holiday, she returned to her old home in Oxford to spend a week with her brother’s family, it was not as a disciplinarian but as the laughing Aunt Midge who was determined to spoil her niece and nephews and to beg for their company on bicycle rides.

  Her welcome in the summer of 1899 was as boisterous as ever. All five children were waiting to greet her, for little Grace was as lively as her brothers now, and beginning to chatter. A good deal of hugging and kissing and the distribution of small presents took place before at last Midge turned half apologetically to her sister-in-law.

  ‘Would Gordon mind, do you think – would you mind – if I were to call at the shop? It’s been such a long time. Three years. To wait another four hours to see him seems unbearable.’

  ‘He’ll be delighted,’ Lucy assured her. ‘Would you like to take the pony cart?’

  ‘Gracious, no. I’ll go by bicycle and be back for tea. It’s just to say hello. I shan’t expect him to tell me the complete story of his adventures.’

  She set off at once on the machine that was stored at Oxford for her and oiled in readiness for each visit. The streets of the university city always made her feel young again. As a twenty-year-old student she had walked this way, along Longwall Street, every Monday morning in term – prepared for a history coaching but dreaming of the young man whom she might, if she were lucky, meet again outside her tutor’s door. Archie Yates was Lucy’s brother, and often when Midge remembered with shame what had happened in his rooms in Magdalen, she found herself glad that he had refused to speak to his sister since her elopement with Gordon Hardie. The stone walls of the college might remind Midge of those salad days, but she would never have to endure the embarrassment of facing Archie again.

  A different encounter awaited her, however, before she could greet her brother. As she turned into the High Street, kicked a pedal down to steady her bicycle against the kerb and opened the door of The House of Hardie, Will Witney rose to greet her, a grin of pleasure on his freckled face. Will had been in love with her for thirteen years.

  ‘How well you look!’ Midge exclaimed
as she shook hands. During Gordon’s long absence it was Will, as manager, who had taken charge of the Hardies’ family business, and the hard work and responsibility had given him an anxious appearance. But it seemed that his employer’s return had restored his cheerful spirits. Beneath a shock of bristly red hair, his face was flushed with good health. He had the strong body of an athlete: only when he moved did his limp betray a leg crushed in boyhood.

  Whilst well aware of his feelings, Midge saw no reason to let them spoil a friendship. She had told him long ago that she would have to choose between marriage and a teaching career, and the governors who appointed her to her present post had made it clear that a married headmistress would be unacceptable. But in all honesty she had to admit to herself that the choice had not been too difficult. She had liked Will from the moment of their first meeting, enjoying his conversation and his company. But she had never felt for him the kind of overwhelming love which might have tempted her to waste her education and abandon her ambition. Occasionally she wished that he would find someone else to marry, so that she need not feel guilty at depriving him of a family life. At other times she delighted in the warmth of his greeting, and her eyes sparkled with as much pleasure as his own.

  ‘Mr Hardie has an outside appointment,’ Will told her. He would not use his employer’s Christian name in the presence of the counter clerks. ‘But he may not have left yet. I’ll send someone out to see.’

  Midge sat down to wait as the messenger set off at a run for the warehouse. Within only a few moments her brother burst through the door. ‘Midge!’

  ‘I couldn’t wait,’ she told him. ‘It’s so good to see you safely back after such a long time. But I won’t keep you if you have a meeting arranged.’

  ‘The appointment is with an architect. I hope to persuade him to design a house for us. We’re due to meet at the site.’ Gordon looked at her bicycling clothes and sturdy footwear with approval. ‘I propose to go there by bicycle for the exercise. Ever since I returned home I’ve been sitting at a desk. Would you care to come too?’

  ‘Certainly I would.’ They set off together across Magdalen Bridge and took the old road leading towards London. Although Midge was fit, the steepness of the hill which led up towards Shotover proved too much for her. Gordon dismounted to walk at her side.

  ‘Did Lucy tell you about the land?’ he asked.

  ‘Lucy had no time to tell me anything. I came straight to see you.’

  ‘It’s a gift from the old marquess. That’s to say, he gave the money to buy it.’

  ‘Lucy told me that they’d been reconciled before he died, and that he’d been very generous.’

  ‘His generosity was actually directed at Grace. Don’t know why. The old man set up a trust fund. All the money has to be spent within three years on buying or building a house which will become Grace’s sole property on her twenty-first birthday. Lucy and I and the boys will be graciously allowed to live in it until then!’

  His tone of voice was light enough, but Midge could guess that he found it humiliating to have been excluded from managing his daughter’s affairs.

  ‘So you’ll have to shoulder all the running costs?’

  ‘There’s no problem there,’ said Gordon. ‘The House of Hardie can afford to keep the family in greater style than any of us has ever bothered about. The only thing that annoyed me was that Lucy wasn’t allowed to wait for my return before buying the land. Her grandfather sent his land agent to help her choose, but I’m not sure, all the same, that she’s got it right. We’ll have to see what the architect says.’

  By now they had left behind them the stone walls and cottages of Headington Quarry, and arrived in unspoiled country. The old road continued up to the summit of Shotover Hill, but Gordon indicated that they should turn right along a rough track.

  ‘This first stretch of woodland belongs to one of the colleges,’ he said. ‘But the bridlepath is a public right of way, and leads us to our boundary here.’ He leaned his bicycle against a stone wall, next to a five-barred gate.

  Midge followed his example and studied the land in front of them with interest. A wide swathe of neglected woodland clothed the lower slope of the hill. So thick was the undergrowth and so rampant the brambles and ivies which clung to every tree that it was impossible to see more than a few yards in that direction. On the other side, looking up the hill, the view was more open. The ground near the gate was overgrown with scrub, but as it rose higher it opened into rough grassland. She had no time, though, to consider the site more carefully, for at that moment she saw someone walking down the hill towards them: a tall, fair-haired man of about thirty, wearing a green tweed knickerbocker suit.

  ‘Ah, good; you’ve been having a look round already!’ exclaimed Gordon. ‘Midge, this is Mr Patrick Faraday. Mr Faraday, my sister, Miss Hardie. We’ll go up to the top.’ He opened the gate and strode ahead through a spinney, over the rough scrub and up the slope of the hill. Midge, who could not match his long stride, was unable to keep up, and grateful for Mr Faraday’s politeness in remaining at her side.

  ‘My brother has only lately returned from an expedition to the Himalayas,’ she explained. ‘After surviving landslides and earthquakes, it’s not to be expected that he should be held up by mere nettles or brambles. And he’s accustomed to lead a caravan of sure-footed mules rather than a townswoman like myself.’

  ‘This may be tame by Himalayan standards,’ commented the architect. ‘But as a site for a house and gardens it must be considered very rough. And steep. There will be problems.’

  As though it had occurred to Gordon at the same moment that the unkempt state of the land might give a wrong impression, he came to a halt and waited for the other two to catch up before making an announcement. ‘My wife,’ he said to Mr Faraday, ‘is a granddaughter of the late Marquess of Ross. She expects the best.’

  Midge, glancing at her companion, saw his eyes flicker with surprise, and was able to read his thoughts. Presumably he already had some idea for the kind of house which would be suitable for a vintner in a prosperous way of business. But a family connection of a marquess …! Any architect would be familiar with at least the outside appearance of the great house at Castlemere. No doubt Mr Faraday’s head was now swimming with visions of a masterpiece on a palatial scale. A Palladian villa, a Jacobean manor house, a French château? Terraces, double staircases rising from marble entrance halls, libraries and ballrooms and dining rooms to seat fifty guests. His unconscious sigh gave all his hopes away.

  Gordon was as quick as his sister to realize the effect of what he had said. ‘Within reason, of course,’ he added.

  ‘Of course.’ Mr Faraday took any disappointment like a man. ‘The slope has a south-west aspect. You’ll want to build well below the brow of the hill, I imagine, to give the house protection from northerly winds.’

  Gordon shook his head. ‘Come just a little higher,’ he said.

  Midge and the architect joined him at a point from which it was possible to survey the whole generous parcel of land. Seen from above, the grassy slope which they had just climbed gave the impression that it had once been terraced, but that over several hundred years the contours of the flat strips had been blunted by rain and wind. For the first time, too, she could see the movement of water running along the valley at the foot of the woodlands. ‘Is the stream yours?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. And the flatter area on its further side, towards the city. Now then.’ Gordon turned towards the architect and pointed down towards a place where the ground appeared to have been scooped away, creating an area of grassland flat enough to suggest that it had provided the base for some earlier habitation, perhaps many centuries ago.

  ‘I’ve no doubt you see that as the ideal position for the house,’ he said, ‘And so it would be – for any house except the one which is to be built for the benefit of my daughter’s health. She is to live not less than three hundred feet above sea level. The terms of the trust are specific on this. So
we must build here, above this beech tree.’

  ‘Are there any other special requirements?’ The architect was careful not to sound critical.

  ‘I suggest that a design to enclose three sides of a courtyard would be particularly suitable. We have five children, and there may be more. They could have a wing to themselves, instead of merely a nursery floor. The little girl, Grace, must have a room of her own facing as nearly south as possible. The entertaining rooms could face west, to catch the evening sun, whilst a north aspect would keep the kitchen quarters cool and provide the best light for a studio. My wife is a talented painter.’

  ‘And for yourself, Gordon?’ asked Midge, knowing that he devoted all his free time to experiments in plant propagation.

  ‘I shall require a glasshouse – separate from the ones to be used by the gardeners – and a plant room and study next to it. None of that needs to be part of the main house. They could be lower down the hill.’

  ‘To keep you away from the hurly-burly!’ laughed Midge. Spending all her life surrounded by children, she was well aware of the noise they made. She and her brother watched as the architect studied the sun and the land, seeming almost to sniff the air as he tried to get the feel of the atmosphere before taking out his notebook. He looked up for a moment, indicating that he would like to make one point clear before considering the matter further.

  ‘It’s my preference, wherever possible, to use whatever building material is locally available,’ he said. ‘In this case it would be the grey stone from Headington Quarry. The choice of material, of course, affects the nature of the design.’

  ‘Agreed!’ Gordon was a businessman, accustomed to taking prompt decisions. ‘I’ll put a point to you in return. Money. I’ll tell you the situation straight, Mr Faraday, and then you must decide whether it suits you. I don’t want you coming to me in a year’s time and saying that you thought this and you didn’t realize that. I like people to know where they stand – and where I stand.’