Prue Phillipson - Hordens of Horden Hall

by Height of Folly

  “Look here, Mistress Horden,” he began. “I know this is irregular but I’m a man of action. Too many words bother me. To speak plain why shouldn’t you and I get together? You know I lost my good lady last year and have four children in need of a mother. Your father and I are in business together over the coal works which puts us on a sort of level. I’ve brought him a good deal of wealth so I don’t feel it’s impertinent to approach you. I thought I’d sound you out before I asked his leave, seeing we’re both over the hill a bit.”

  Deborah was so astonished she didn’t interrupt him till he paused for breath.

  “Am I to understand that this is a proposal of marriage, Mr

  Warner?”

  “Well, ay. No offence meant. I have a good town house in

  Pilgrim Street in Newcastle. I keep a carriage and pair, a cook, two

  maids and a manservant. You wouldn’t have to lift a finger. Mind,

  you could teach the children for you’re famous for your learning

  and they’re making little progress at school.”

  And you would want me in your bed, I suppose, Deborah was

  thinking. She tried to imagine him naked under those straining

  breeches and her gorge rose.

  “Thank you.” She stood up. “Thank you, Mr Warner, but the

  answer is no.”

  He rose too, his face red. “You’ve not had time to think about it.

  You’re not like to get another offer at your age and I could make

  you very comfortable. I’m standing for the town council. Who

  knows? I might go for parliament yet.”

  “I’m sure I wish you every success but Ihave no wish to

  change my present status.” She walked away. No one seemed to

  have noticed the little encounter and when she looked back she

  saw him hunch his shoulders and slouch off to the tent where jugs

  of ale were being handed out.

  A cool breeze and a feeling of rain in the air dispersed the

  guests within the next hour and the family assembled in the

  parlour beside a good fire with a fresh brew of tea from the

  kitchen.

  Deborah looked round at them all with a laugh. “Well, I had a

  proposal of marriage so the Harvest Ball bore fruit as you hoped it

  would, Father.”

  Ruth burst out. “I had dozens!” Then she sat up and stared at

  Deborah. “You’re serious? You mean somebody really did propose

  to you? You!”

  “You needn’t be so astonished.”

  “But who?” Grandmother Bel exclaimed.

  “Mr Warner, the coal merchant.”

  Father leapt up. “Warner! He had the nerve – I’ll turn him off

  my land.”

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort, Father. You’ve always said he’s a

  hard worker, he knows his business, he treats his men fairly and

  doesn’t cheat his customers. What more can you want?” “Dear God, you haven’t accepted him, Deb?”

  Their mother threw up her hands. “She wants a child. That’s it.” Ruth exclaimed, “But what happened to that earl who helped

  you escape from the fire? Did nothing come of that?”

  Deborah wished she had never mentioned Mr Warner’s

  proposal. “Father, you may sit down again. Of course I haven’t

  accepted him. And no, Ruth, nothing came of Lord Branford who

  is not an earl yet anyway. I shall continue as I am. But one thing I

  would really like to do, Father, is take John’s place while he is

  away.”

  Daniel sat down, mopping his brow with relief. “What a fright

  you gave me there, Deb! As to John’s place what had you in mind?

  Were you thinking of writing a memorandum from his little

  notes?”

  “No, I told John in France that he should do more to help you.

  Last night I believe you sat up late working out the cost of the ball

  but that is only one small item in a year’s expenses. I would like to

  take over the accounts if you’d let me.”

  “Let you! No one would be more pleased than I. I tried John

  with them when he left university but he wasn’t even as good at the

  figures as myself. Well, we will go over them together. I’ll show you

  the ledgers in the morning.”

  “Thank you, Father. And now Ruth can tell us of all her

  marriage proposals.”

  Ruth blushed and giggled. “They weren’t exactly proposals but every man I danced with said I was the girl for him and I danced

  like an angel.”

  Their mother held up a warning finger. “Never, never let me

  hear you uttering a word in praise of yourself, even if you are

  quoting someone else.”

  Idanced like an angel with Ranald Gordon, Deborah thought.

  He was so strong he made me feel as light as a feather. It would be

  impossible to dance with Frederick unless I took the man’s part.

  “Who did you like best of your partners?” she asked Ruth, knowing

  who she would say.

  Ruth’s cheeks flamed up more than before. “That cousin of the

  Robsons from Upper Horden Manor, as you very well know, Deb.

  Simon Stephenson.” She spluttered over the name. “But he’s to go

  to Oxford soon and I won’t see him for years and his home’s in

  York. So what’s the use of that?”

  “I waited years for your father,” Eunice said, “and Mother Bel

  here waited for Father Nat. If he’s a worthy boy and a God-fearing

  and loves you as a man should love his wife he will be worth

  waiting for. We will not run before the Lord. You and he will still

  be young in three years’ time. He must work hard and earn his

  living before we would even think of him for you.”

  Ruth looked up at Deborah. “But he’s so handsome, isn’t he,

  Deb? I saw youlooking at him.”

  Grandmother Bel laughed. “The lad in the blue waistcoat! Iwas

  looking at him. He was beautiful! But, as your mother says you

  should go by the inside of a package not the wrapper.” “Enough,” said Daniel. “We will not marry Ruth off on her

  seventeenth birthday. Let us have a bowl of punch and drink to the

  health of both our daughters.”

  “In moderation, of course,” said Eunice.

  Deborah retired that night excited about her new challenge. If

  John intended to spend half his time in France and Ruth would be married in a few years’ time the running of Horden Hall would be

  in her hands as her father aged.

  Before my travels, she recalled, I thought I was tiring of the

  place but if I am truly involved in the running of it I will have work

  with a purpose. The study of modern languages was useful but

  where was Hebrew leading? I can refresh my brain with figures.

  Dear Grandmother ran this place in days of poverty and helped to

  set it on its feet. Father has improved the farms and now has

  income from coal too. But our expenses have mightily increased in

  recent years. John has a much bigger allowance than we girls but

  Father found extra money for our late travels and must now pay

  for more journeys to and from France. John comes and goes

  without a thought for the cost. I want to know our total income

  and whether it can continue to meet so many outgoings. Can I

  help Father make savings? Can I increase our income in any way

  so he has a surplus for Ruth’s dowry when the time comes?

  Mother is frugal since she has no ambitio
ns towards grandeur but

  the administration of a large estate is not something her mind can

  compass. Father is beginning to find the work wearisome. I think I

  can forget love and babies and be very happy from now on.

  Bel Wilson Horden, to her great annoyance, was becoming frail in body. She had been accustomed all her life to do things in a hurry but now it was only her mind that still rushed about. With no specific duties since her dear Nathaniel had died and she had had to move from the vicarage to the Hall it was her son’s family who filled her heart and soul, but she knew she must give Daniel’s and Eunice’s marriage the space it needed. So she spent certain hours in her own room, looking out on the green sward, Sir Ralph’s statue and the fields and woods beyond the gates. There she had too much time for thinking since her eyes soon tired of reading or sewing and the object of much of her thinking that winter was her granddaughter, Deborah.

  Seventeen hundred and six turned into seventeen hundred and seven and she could no longer stop her scampering thoughts from demanding action. Suzette came early to her room as she did every day to see what help she needed.

  “ Je veuxécrireunelettre, Suzette.” To please the girl she liked to recall what little French she knew and Suzette had become totally devoted to her.

  So Suzette made up a good fire and moved her chair so she could sit at her writing desk with her back warming. Then she fetched all the materials she needed, wrapped a shawl round her shoulders and tucked a rug over her knees.

  “ Merci bien, Suzette.”

  The girl had hardly closed the door before Bel’s pen was writing the opening words.

  ‘My dear old friend,

  You know from my late beloved Nat and from my letters all

  these ye ars since his deaththat I never stood on ceremony yet and am not like to start in my advanced years. Why have we heard nothingfromHertfordshire for alongtime? Iprayyou are all in healthandyourgrandsonissafelyreturnedfromhistravels.I looked to hear atChristmas but we arenow into theNew Year. I believe it was June when my last letter went off but then our Deborah and Johnwere notreturned so I had not seen my sweet great-grandchild blessedly named Nathaniel John but it is not about him that I am writing now.

  ‘ No one knows I am writing this and I am sure I would be mightily scolded if they knew but I have beenobserving Deborah since their return and she is not herself. Would you believe it she has from last September thrown herself into the management of this estate to help her father. My dear Daniel has a reasonably good head onhim but she is phenomenal and has been through the accountsand sortedallthe receipts and papers and everything so thatnothing can be lostagain whichI fearwas all in a muddle before. But you will ask why I am telling you all this and still say she is not herself thoughshe has found a deal ofpleasure in the work but it is all to hide and bury deep down that she is really fretting. The fact is she can manage everything but her heart.

  ‘ Iknowthisisalwrongintheworld’seyeswhatIamdoingbut DanieltoldmethatDebsaidshehadpartedfromyourFrederick coldly andthat he saidto her, ‘Deborah, I can’t bearthis’ orsome such words. Now it seemsto me that the two of themreached a fondness in those days of travel and especially after the fright of that horrid fire and that fondness shouldn’t be allowed to cool unless of course they lose their hearts elsewhere. If your Frederick is affianced to another since his return for God’s sake burn this letter. Daniel did propose making an approach to you about arranging a match but Deborah wouldn’t hear of such a formal thing though I believe her heart was weeping. I know there are troubles holding her back. One is what she calls her cursedinches. It’struesheisafinehandsomefiguresix-feettallandasstrongas an ox. She is never ill and I’d wager she could still bear manyfine children. But there isanother troublewhich she onlycould tell a prospective husband and I can’t dwell upon it but if they could only meet up again I believe that would melt away like snow.

  ‘Perhaps Frederick could not abide the difference in their height and if that’s so there is nothing more to be saidonly I can’t help saying that in a marriage made byGod such a thing should be of no account.

  ‘ Iknowyouwillforgiethisletter,Edward,mydeargoodfriend, because you like me have passed our three score years and ten. I wanttolivetoseemyDebtrulyhappyandIknowyouwishan heir for your great estates butmost ofall to see the grandsonyou so miraculously discoveredfinding joy inlifesincethe sad lossof his wife and child.

  ‘I shall tell no one I havewritten this and I beg thatif you or Frederick make anyresponse toityou will notlet itbeknownthat it was prompted in any wayby me. Let the response come froma heartofloveornotatall.Ivaluelovemorethanwisdomasis plain from my writing all this.

  ‘I tha nk you,dearfriend, for the love you showedmyNathaniel atCambridge whenhewas dispiritedbyworries.Youwereyounger thanhebuthetoldmehowhevaluedyourgenerousopennature and could talkof things to you that he could share with no one else at that time. It was a great joy to him that our sons had a good friendship both at the university and in the navy and if it is God’s willthatourfamiliesshouldbeunitedinthedaystocomethere will be more rejoicing.

  ‘I say again if circumstances are such that everything in this letter should never havebeen written praydestroy it atonce.

  Whateveryoudo I will remain your affectionatefriend,

  Bel Wilson Horden.’

  By some strange instinct ten minutes after she had finished and laid her head back and closed her eyes Suzette came in with a dish of tea.

  “My lady done writing?”

  Bel couldn’t make the effort to speak French. “I must look through it when my eyes are rested for I’m sure the writing is unreadable. But this letter is not to be put among any other letters going from the Hall. I want no one to see it till it is safely in the hands of the postboy. Can you make sure of that, Suzette? Have you understood?”

  “Oh yes, yes. Letter very special, secret. I understand good.”

  “Understand well, my sweet girl. Now pour me the tea. My poor brain is desperate for it.”

  The letter was addressed to the Earl of Branford and safely committed to the post that very day without anyone else in Horden Hall knowing about it.

  Bel came down to the family dinner in a very cheerful mood. She felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

  Frederick Branford carried the letter to his grandfather’s bedside. He could see it came from Northumberland and was addressed in the wavering hand of an old person. He had heard his grandfather referring to the lady with whom he had been corresponding as Arabella Wilson Horden, the widow of his dear college friend, Nathaniel. “But I must always write to her as Bel,” he would say with a throaty chuckle. “She told me she would not answer to anything else.” This letter, Frederick felt sure, was from her, wondering why she had not heard from him for many months.

  There may be news in it of her granddaughter, he told himself, but I dare not hope for a message in it from her to me.

  Nevertheless his heart was thumping in his chest and his breath coming in short bursts as he entered his grandfather’s bedchamber. The room was dim, unchanged for years, Will Smyth had told him. The velvet bed-curtains were drawn.

  Frederick lifted a corner and peeped round.

  The features were always like death, white and sharp, the eyes shut.

  “Are you awake, Grandfather?” They opened at once and the slack mouth tightened and curved into a smile. “There is a letter for you from Northumberland.”

  “Ah my dear Bel! It is an age since she wrote. Did I answer her? I don’t remember. You’ll have to tell me again how long I have been ill.”

  “You were ill when I returned from Europe in September, sir. Mother’s letters telling me of it had never reached me. We altered our route because of the fighting and then we were held back for many days while they investigated us. I was carrying your pistol and they were suspicious of us.”

  “Did they take it away? I was fond of that pistol.”

  “I’m afraid they did, sir. Do
you want to read your letter? I can prop you up and bring more candles.”

  “No, no, no. You read it to me, boy. What day is it?”

  “Wednesday.”

  “That means nothing to me. The date. I know not how long I‘ve been ill.”

  “We are into seventeen hundred and seven. It’s the beginning of February.”

  The old man tried to sit up. Frederick laid down the letter and helped him, pulling up his pillows. “How have I lived so long, dear boy? I held on to see you again, didn’t I?”

  “God be praised.” He had taken up the letter again and it tantalised his fingers. “May I let in more light if I’m to read it? The sun is shining. It’s a bright spring day.”

  “Yes, yes. I can shut my eyes if it hurts them.”

  Frederick went to the window and drew the heavy curtain. The blue sky, the swathes of snowdrops in the lawn and especially the small figure of his mother gathering some to bring into the sick room blessed his sight. He waved.

  “Let’s hear what dear old Bel has to say for herself then.”

  Frederick stepped back to the bed, breaking the seal. His eyes at once jumped to the capital D’s on the page. He thought, it’s about Deborah. Ought I to read it?

  His grandfather made an impatient grunt and he plunged into the first lines, Bel’s reproach for the long time without a word.

  His grandfather broke in. “You must write at once and tell her how ill I was. Nay, if spring is here I must get well enough to write myself.”

  “Are you sure you couldn’t read it, sir? I feel it’s – the contents

  – may not be for my eyes.” But his eyes were devouring it as he spoke. He was incapable of dragging them away. Deborah was not herself, she was fretting, she had thrown herself into work to still her heart. Could this be true?

  “Why have you stopped reading?”

  “Because it is private, for you alone.” He was telling himself, have I not been fretting, have I not thrown myself into learning the running of our estates and find Grandfather’s affairs are not well sorted? There are unpaid debts. There are uncollected rents.

  His mother tapped on the door and entered the room just when he had seen his own name and the very words he had said to Deborah quoted back in the letter.