THE HORDENS OF HORDEN HALL
Book Four Other Books by Prue Phillipson
Heir Apparent
The Hordens of Horden Hall Series
Vengeance Thwarted (1) Hearts Restored (2) Rebels Repentant (3) Height of Folly (4)
HEIGHT OF FOLLY
Prue Phillipson
KNOX ROBINSON PUBLISHING
London & New York
KNOX ROBINSON PUBLISHING
34 New House
67-68 Hatton Garden London, EC1N 8JY &
244 5th Avenue, Suite 1861 New York, New York 10001
Copyright © Prue Phillipson 2014
The right of Prue Phillipson to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. ISBN 978-1-910282-32-8
CHAPTER ONE
Horden Hall, Northumberland New Year’s Day 1700
“So, my girl,” she asked herself, “what will you make of this new century? Eh?”
Deborah Wilson Horden stood before her cheval mirror – a Christmas present from her parents, Sir Daniel and Lady Eunice.
“They are sensible gentlefolk so why,” she demanded of her reflection, “did they think I want to look at a six-foot-tall scarecrow?” She thrust her hands upwards through her flaxen hair and grinned at the effect. “Yes, scarecrow – an apt image. There is the straw on top. And the face? Roughed out of lumps of cloth, the nose too long and the chin too square. The forehead much too high – for what brains does a scarecrow need standing in a field all day watching the world go by?” She peered closer. “They’ve done better with the eyes.” She widened them appreciatively. “There are depths in there. Green-blue ocean depths! Oceans this scarecrow has never crossed nor is likely to.” She pulled down the corners of her mouth – too large of course – and hopped, feet together, her bed-gown flapping round her, to the window.
“Well, look at that, Scarecrow. It’s snowing!”
The narrow, pointed window still reminded her that the room had been a Catholic Chapel in the days of her French greatgrandmother. She leant her elbows on the stone sill. Out there the statue of old Sir Ralph Horden, the first baronet and her greatgreat-great-grandfather, was wearing a jaunty cap of snow. Around him the expanse of lawn was unbroken white. She wagged a finger at him.
“It’ll melt and all will be green again, you old rogue. Those distant trees will grow fresh leaves, become heavy with summer, golden with autumn and certainly white again. You will still wave your sword at me and my life will be just the same. No one will put me out but I will never marry. It would be the height of folly to suppose a scarecrow could attract a man. I will be the eccentric unattached sister, aunt, great aunt – as I will surely become – part of the furnishings of Horden Hall.”
She turned from the mirror and flung herself onto her bed. Am I still weary, she wondered, after last night’s New Year’s Eve revelry? The house is very quiet. Even the servants must be asleep. She sat up. No, I am not tired. It is the new century that has upset my contented soul. The Deborah Wilson Horden of my youth would have greeted it with joy. She rocked herself on the bed. New things to learn, new people to meet, history to unwrap before my very eyes.
She sprang to her feet again and walked up and down her long narrow room till she stopped at the mirror again and told the scarecrow, “In two years’ time, you Thing, you will be thirty. Thirty with no future.” She cocked her head on one side. “But a past. Oh yes, you certainly have a past. And that’s what you can become – ‘The Legend of Horden Hall.’ Word will go down from generation to generation that the mad old woman at the Hall has a history. Murdered her lover, didn’t she? ‘Tis said she went on a wild ride to Edinburgh to save him from the gallows and he ended up dead – but not by the hangman. She’ll never speak of it, that’s for certain.”
“Deb, have you someone in there?” She started. Her father’s voice sounded just outside the door.
“Oh Father dear,” she muttered under her breath. “Do you suppose I’ve had that bearded mining engineer from Newcastle in my room all night? You thought he’d gone home after the Firstfooting but he crept back in.”
She opened the door. “I’m talking to the scarecrow in the glass. Come over here beside me. It’s only when you are by me that I don’t look like a freak-show.”
He slipped his arm round her waist and gave her a squeeze.
“Not that old grumble again?”
He drew himself up to his full height of six foot-three and grinned at their reflections. She thought, the grey mixed with his fair hair scarcely shows. He is still a handsome man at over fifty and has kept his slender figure. I like him best without the wig he puts on for formal company. But he is excited about something. Is it just the new century or has he something to tell me?
He squeezed her waist again. “Happy new year, daughter.”
“Happy new century,” she reminded him.
“Indeed, and it’s going to be a great one. We will have peace now the religious wars are over. Science and industry will advance apace.”
“Is there to be no more fighting? King James is exiled but is still alive and has a son whom many would wish to see on the throne.”
He dismissed this with a wave of his hand. “A mere remnant of fanatics.”
“Of whom your son is one.”
“What? John? Nonsense, girl. Look, I came with a great surprise for you and I find you talking to yourself in a pessimistic mood. Put that behind you and listen to what I have to say.”
“Very well, Father.” She sat down on the window-seat and folded her hands on her knees. He took the chair by her little desk and turned it round to face her with his eyes bright and a smile on his face.
“Have you not always wanted to travel abroad, my Deb?”
She lifted her brows and nodded, not daring to hope.
“You shall. When John and Jeanetta go on their visit to her family you shall accompany them.”
“I see.” It was better than nothing though she disliked what she had seen of her French cousins when they visited London and she and John first met Jeanetta. At least she would cross the Channel and be in another country. She would live for a few weeks or perhaps months in a French château. She could show off her fluency in their language.
“Are you not delighted?” he asked.
“Why yes, Father, but the extra expense to you?”
He chuckled. “I’ll tell you what happened last night after you went to bed. You know Bill Warner, the mining engineer?”
She nodded. “With the beard.”
“He was the last to go. I could see he wanted me on my own. Well, the long and the short of it is that his coal company – he is a member of the Guild of Hostmen – wishes to lease many acres where our land meets Upper Horden Manor’s. They are certain of rich seams there and will pay handsomely. Don’t pull a face. Plenty of woodland will be left at the back which will screen the workings from the Hall. Deb, I do believe we are on the way to being wealthy and you shall reap the fruits of it.”
“Oh Father, why me? You will need a dowry for Ruth in a few years’ time. And will not Mother expect all excess to be given to the poor?”
He laughed uneasily. “I daresay, I daresay, but Ihave the last word and you are to see the best sights of the great continent of Europe.”
Now her heart did lift. “Do you mean it is to be more than a visit to the Château Rombeau?”
“Indeed it is. John can leave Jeanetta with her family after a suitable stay when we all trust she will find herself with child at last. She says she must be in France to produce a baby. Nonsense of course,
but John encourages the notion. I thought you and he could visit the Loire and Rhone valleys and even take ship to Italy before the birth was due. Young gentlemen are expected to make the grand tour these days. At twenty-five he has crossed the Channel only once – for his wedding. And Ruth went to be Jeanetta’s bridesmaid when y oushould have gone but –”
“And left Grandmother Bel alone when Grandfather Nat was ill?” Deborah still gulped with sorrow when she thought of Grandfather Nat. “Was he not my lifeline all my childhood? He always had time for my questions, taught me Latin and Greek, never thought I should exchange a book for a sewing sampler.”
Her father held up his hand. “I know, Deb, I know. I was too busy with the restoration of this place after the fire and your mother – well, that is all past history. But what say you to my great idea?”
She jumped up and spreading out her arms as he rose too she gave him a prolonged hug.
“Dearest Father, it is a wonderful idea. But who is to be in charge? Am I to keep little brother from all the temptations we will encounter or is he escorting me because he is a man?”
Her father laughed. “Both, I would suggest. You will have to settle that between you. Of course a woman cannot travel alone. At the same time I rely on your good sense when decisions have to be made.”
She took both his hands and led him to the window-seat to sit beside her.
“Political decisions, Father?”
“What do you mean? You will be sight-seers only.”
She shook her head. “I was serious just now when I hinted that John has Jacobite leanings. Will he not meet French gentlemen who believe that James is the rightful king of England?”
“Maybe, maybe, but King Louis has recognised William whatever he thinks privately, and John would never revert to his mad episode at Killiecrankie. He was a child then. Now he’s conscious that he is heir to Horden. If he views Catholicism with sympathy it is only for Jeanetta’s sake. He has small interest in politics. He never speaks of such things to me.”
She gave an exasperated sigh. Surely, she thought, Father can see John’s restlessness. His Scottish adventure when he was thirteen has not frightened him into placidity, rather given him an appetite for risk and excitement. Jeanetta encourages him. She wants to see him as a romantic hero. Sheis fretting not only because she has failed to produce a child but because Horden is too dull, too rustic, too English. When she gets John to France who knows what ideas he will lap up.
Her father stood up, patting her on the arm. “Have no fears on that score, Deb.” He noticed she was still in her bed-gown. “Get dressed, my sweet, and come down for breakfast all together. The first of the new century! The servants have been creeping about because your mother was still asleep but she is up now. I told her I was going to break the good news to you. Of course she says I am not to spend money till I have it. Well, I know that. Your great adventure may not come about for a year or two but I promise it will happen – in the providence of God.”
She got up and nodded at the scarecrow, telling it silently, you have no idea, Thing, what this may lead to! You might even meet a very tall man.
When her father had gone she twirled round the room till she lost her balance and fell on the bed laughing with excitement.
CHAPTER TWO
Dover, April 1705
The wait for the grand tour had taken five tedious years and now here they were still waiting just to get out of England – three days on the white cliffs praying for a fair wind.
There had been setback after setback. The mine had to be deeper than Bill Warner thought. He could only pay the promised lease when he could afford the latest ventilation equipment. That was not until 1702. But that was also the year war broke out in Europe and a land tax was imposed to pay for it.
John and Jeanetta were fretting and there was no sign of an heir to Horden. Sir Daniel wrote to Jeanetta’s father, the Comte Rombeau, for his opinion on the state of the war. He assured Sir Daniel that people were still travelling and the fighting was confined to the Netherlands and Austria and would not be allowed to stray onto true French soil.
John told his father, “Jeanetta will pine away if we don’t go soon. We will be perfectly snug at Rombeau.”
“Is not Rombeau near the border?” his mother Eunice cried. “You shan’t go into danger.”
Jeanetta pouted. “Sixty miles away.”
“Is not that scarce two days’ march?”
Jeanetta gave up trying to convince her mother-in-law but Sir Daniel was another matter. She would hang on his arm and let her great black eyes search his until her pleading wore him down. Then news came in the summer of 1704 that the Duke of Marlborough had won a great battle at Blenheim by the Danube.
“I am sure,” Daniel told Eunice, “the French will capitulate soon. We must let the young people go.”
Jeanetta sang and laughed. She was again the captivating girl John had fallen in love with at the age of thirteen. None of them realised quite how homesick she had been when he had brought his bride home to Northumberland.
Deborah at thirty-two skipped about in her room from wardrobe to trunk, delighting Grandmother Bel who sat on the window-seat to watch the preparations.
“If your father could afford it I would join your party. I feel thirty-seven not seventy-seven just seeing you packing.”
“Oh Grandmamma, I’d love you to come.”
“Just come back safe and sound, my precious, before the Lord calls me.”
And now here they were, Jeanetta moaning at the wild wind and waves. On the fourth morning she and Deborah and John had stepped outside the inn door to be buffeted again by a southwesterly and to see over the higgledy-piggledy roofs of Dover that the Channel was still a chaos of grey and white heaving water.
Clinging to John, Jeanetta propelled him back inside the shelter of the porch. Deborah was laughing at the sheer exuberance of it all, taking gulps of salty air.
She said, “Your candle to Saint Antony last night has done no good.”
Jeanetta pouted and John frowned. He could laugh at her himself but no one else was permitted to do so.
The innkeeper stepped up behind them, rubbing his hands. “Come, ladies, there’ll be no sailing today. Sit you down to a good breakfast. You won’t get food like this from the Frenchies.” He waved them to the laden table set in the bow window, the least dingy part of the room. Even there the tiny leaded panes admitted little light when the clouds outside hung so low over the sea.
They sat down and John, tucking the linen napkin under his chin, grinned at Deborah. “You have longed for this for five years and now the fates decree that we must stay in England.”
Deborah smiled back. Being stuck in Dover was no hardship at all. She was alive in new places, observing new people, their clothes, their work, their accents. If they stared at her for being so uncommonly tall, she stared back or laughed till they looked away. It amazed her to recall how few new people she ever saw at home from one day to the next. Now she was jostled by them here in the inn and out in the streets and she made notes and lightning sketches in her diary of the more eccentric characters she saw.
All the way from Northumberland she had been content to let John lord it over her. He was the seasoned traveller after his one trip to Château Rombeau for his wedding. She let him manage the coach stops, the bargaining with inn servants, the choice of accommodation here in Dover, a dirty town, crammed with disgruntled travellers, while she drank in every new experience like heady wine.
Horden Hall and the last sight of Grandmother Bel, their father and mother waving and sister Ruth, struggling to hide tears because she was not coming too, all seemed far away in both time and space.
“You must eat,” John was telling his wife. “If we do sail tomorrow you will certainly be sick and if you are already weak –”
She pushed away her plate. She had toyed with the eggs but the curled slices of baked ham underneath were untouched. He pushed the plate back to her.
&
nbsp; She stood up. “Don’t fuss me. I shall return to bed. I couldn’t sleep for Deb there snoring all night.”
Deborah laughed. “That was the old gentleman above us. I do not snore.”
Jeanetta lifted her narrow shoulders, her eyes staring out at the violent sea. She was almost whimpering. “Those waves out there. I verily fear we will never get to France or if we venture we will be drowned on the way.”
“Rubbish!” John snapped. “They won’t sail if it’s not safe.”
“I only want to stand on French soil. Send Maria to me and Matt must sit outside the door. I trust no one here.” She pushed her way between the tables and made for the stairs. John got up reluctantly to find their servants. They had brought only Maria, Jeanetta’s over-anxious French maid and Matt, the senior groom, a lover of excitement, desperate to come travelling.
Deborah sighed for Jeanetta. She is still pretty, she thought, in a helpless sort of way even when pouting. But where is John’s lost passion? They were Romeo and Juliet once. Love will never come to meagain but I want it for them – and for my sake. Bickering and snapping are poor travelling companions.
John came back to the table and sat down. “Of course breakfast is cold now.”
All the same he cleared his plate and Jeanetta’s. Deborah studied him as he ate. He had been competent on the journey but he would always be her little brother since she overtopped him by several inches and his face was still round and boyish. He wore his own dark hair curling onto his shoulders. She loved him. She desperately wanted him to be happy in his marriage.
She reached across the table and pressed his hand. “John, I was thinking about that evening in London when you confided in me that Jeanetta loved you.”
“Eh?” He looked up, astonished.
“Yes, you told her about your great Scottish adventure and she said she had never met anyone so brave and she asked if she could kiss you and you said yes and told me she was the most beautiful girl in the world and you intended to marry her.”
His face flushed up. “And you laughed and said I was a little boy and I’d probably never see her again.”
Prue Phillipson - Hordens of Horden Hall Page 1
