Jessica was everywhere, at every elbow, under every foot. Freed for a welcome couple of days from her studies – for no one could expect her to work with such noisy excitements happening just beneath her feet – she joined in the fray with a will. In her oldest clothes she polished and she cleaned and she carried chairs from the far reaches of the house. She watched fascinated as Joey the gardener’s boy cleaned the fountains, scraping out yards of clinging green slime with his net, a furrow of concentration on his usually vacant face. Traditionally the family kept from each other the secrets of their costumes for the night, but Jessica pestered so that she was allowed to see Caroline’s outfit – a truly marvellous diaphanous affair of gold and blue silk sewn with ribbons and strewn with real flowers. What else could Caroline be on that day but the May Queen, the centre of attention? To Jessica’s dazzled eyes she looked magnificent. A filmy train swept from her shoulders, and a gleaming gold crown woven with flowers and a golden sceptre completed the ensemble. And in Caroline’s pretty ears and around her slender neck bright sapphires blazed, a gift from her father upon her betrothal, and a gentle reminder to the baronet, in case of second thoughts, of the wealth that was pledging itself to his son.
‘Oh, I do wish I were coming—’ Jessica said wistfully, watching as her sister pirouetted before the pier glass, the almost transparent, clinging skirt of the high-waisted dress drifting about her. Even for masquerade Caroline had no intention of being anything but fashionable.
‘I expect you will next year. How should I wear my hair, do you think? Up, like this—?’ She swept the mass of her lovely hair into a pile on her head, turning this way and that to see the effect. ‘Or loose – perhaps with flowers in it—?’ She fluffed it out with her fingers and it lay upon her slim bare shoulders like a cloak of gold.
‘Do you really think so? I shall be nearly fourteen—’
‘Down I think. Everyone else will have theirs up.’
‘Will you dance every dance with Bunty?’
Drawn from her preoccupation with her own reflection Caroline glanced at her sister in surprised amusement. ‘Oh, Lord, no! He’s an abominable dancer. And besides – we aren’t married yet! He’ll have to take his turn with the others.’ She smiled back into the mirror. ‘He’ll take me in to supper of course.’
‘Is that when the announcement will be made?’
‘It is. Now – run along, do. I’ve a million things to do.’
* * *
It was the next day, two days before the ball, that the bombshell was dropped that astonished them all and enraged Caroline to distracted, self-centred tears.
Giles had that morning formally requested an interview with his father, the outcome of which William Hawthorne announced, as surprised as anyone but not at all displeased at the luncheon table.
‘—so the rogue has stolen a march on us all!’ He turned to Giles. ‘Not perhaps the match I might have made for you myself, my boy, but a very suitable one nevertheless. Old blood, and well respected. A FitzBolton, mistress of New Hall. Very appropriate, I must say. She’s a fine girl. Has breeding. A toast, everyone – to Clara and to Giles—’
Everyone around the table was too thunderstruck for a moment to do anything but raise a glass and murmur an assent. Jessica stared at her brother. Giles and Clara! What a dreadful combination!
The storm broke later, in the drawing room over tea. Not even Caroline would dare to create a scene of any magnitude before her father. She had, however, fewer inhibitions before her mother and sister. ‘But, Mama – they can’t!’ she wailed. ‘It’s not fair! This was to be my day – my betrothal! And now they want to ruin it by making it a double announcement! They’ll spoil everything entirely – why can’t they wait—?’
Maria was looking thoughtful, as she had ever since the surprise had been sprung. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. Your brother is apparently set upon announcing it at the ball.’
Caroline stamped her foot. ‘You mean Clara is!’ she snapped with a quick flash of spite, and then the tears came. ‘A fine friend she turned out to be! It isn’t fair. They’ll spoil my betrothal – and, oh, Mama – Clara will be married before I will, and she’s younger than I am—!’ Her voice was tragic. Jessica watched with unfeigned interest. How did Caroline manage to cry without making her face blotchy and her nose run, like other people’s did? Caroline dropped to her knees beside her mother, ‘Oh, Mama, please, talk to Papa for me—?’
Maria shook her head firmly. ‘Truly, dear there’s no point. Your father won’t hear of your marrying before your twentieth birthday, and that’s final.’
‘But that’s almost two years! And Clara’s only seventeen, and she’s to be married this year—’
‘What difference does that make?’ Jessica asked, ingenuously, and was treated to another furious burst of tears from her sister.
‘What difference? She’s younger than me. And I’m—’ she stopped. ‘I should marry first,’ she said, sulkily. ‘Oh, I’ll never forgive her for this. And to announce it at the ball! When all along she’s known this was to be MY day—!’
But rant as Caroline might – and she did – her brother was not to be moved. He had spoken to Clara’s father and to his own. Both were more than happy with an arrangement that would bring back an ancient family connection to New Hall. The decision had been taken and was to be announced. That was that. The wedding was to be in October, in deference to his mother’s feelings, giving a full year of mourning for Edward. Since Clara was to be married from Old Hall it was her wish that the ceremony be conducted from St Agatha’s, the family’s old church. The delay until October would give time to spruce the place up a little. He conveyed all this to his family briskly and in much the way he might deliver any other estate news. Jessica wondered if she were the only one to find his apparent lack of ardour peculiar. A secret courtship, successfully concluded – a betrothal – a wedding – surely even the most temperate of men – and Giles could hardly be called that – might be forgiven for displaying some emotion? Yet he betrayed nothing, behaving in an uncharacteristically contained manner. Perhaps cool Clara had influenced him with her own restraint? Or perhaps, Jessica added gloomily to herself, Caroline’s self-centred histrionics at what she saw as Giles’ and Clara’s deliberate upstaging of her betrothal were enough emotion even for Giles?
‘Did any of you have any idea?’ she asked Robert as they stood watching the Maypole with its multi-coloured ribbons and crown of flowers being erected on the village green.
Robert shook his head. ‘It was a complete surprise. Giles simply turned up and asked to speak to Father. Clara hadn’t said a single word.’
The tension between these two had eased a little in their shared astonishment at the news, though Jessica still nursed her hurt and Robert, knowing it, was awkward.
‘What does everyone think?’
‘Father and Mother are delighted, of course.’
‘And you?’
He shrugged, grinned sideways at her. ‘Me too! Anything to get rid of her!’
‘It’s all very well for you!’
He laughed outright at that, and she could not help but laugh with him, easing the atmosphere further. Companionably they turned and strolled towards the gates of New Hall, waving to the lodge keeper as they passed.
‘Caroline’s absolutely FURIOUS!’
‘What about?’
‘I don’t know – everything! That they want to announce it tomorrow. That Clara will marry now before she does – as if it matters! What a storm in a puddle!’
He laughed. ‘It’ll all settle down after the ball. You’ll see.’
* * *
May Day dawned cloudy, but with gleams of sunshine promising better. Jessica was up with the lark and swallowed her breakfast bread and milk almost at a gulp. She had been given permission to spend the day in the village with Lucy and would not waste a minute. But early as they were the village was up and about before them. Upon the green the ale casks had already been broached and the
smell of roasting meat from the cooking pit was mouth-watering. The fiddler tuned his instrument and everywhere there were children, dressed in their best, bells upon their wrists and ankles, dashing about like beings demented, under everyone’s feet. By the time they took their places, giggling and pushing excitedly, it seemed to Jessica that most of them must be exhausted before they were ready to start. Prettily they danced, though, weaving the coloured bands into clever, intricate designs about the pole and then unravelling them, ducking and swinging in the age-old pattern of the May Day dance. When the dance was done the ox was carved, and succulent it was, with juices running. As Jessica and Lucy sat upon the grass eating their portions, wiping greasy mouths with even greasier fingers, Robert joined them, neat and clean as ever.
Jessica gestured with a rib bone. ‘Aren’t you going to have any? It’s very good.’
‘I know. I’ve had some.’
She pulled a face. ‘Then why aren’t you messy?’
He laughed, and settled himself beside them. ‘You’re messy enough for both of us. Have you heard the news?’
‘What news?’
‘They say Boney’s on the run in Portugal. There’s going to be a battle, Father said—’
‘Oh.’
He grinned at her lack of interest, reached to pick a small and dainty morsel from her bone. ‘Are you staying to watch the football? Hall’s playing village over on Bonner’s Field and there’s likely to be bones broken—’
The day wore on in games and laughter. It was with some reluctance late in the afternoon that Jessica allowed herself to be detached from the crowd that was noisily egging on Brewer the ploughman as he chased a full-grown and indignant pig about the green and marched back to New Hall to rest.
‘If you’re to be allowed to stay up awhiles tonight your Mama said you was to sleep this afternoon,’ Lucy reminded her scowling charge.
With bad grace Jessica allowed herself to be undressed to her petticoat and tucked into bed. In the Long Gallery below she could hear the muffled small sounds of last-minute preparation; a lifted voice, the scraping of a chair, footsteps upon the polished floor.
She awoke, astonished that she had slept, to the sound of music from the room below and the sight of Lucy, beaming, with a tray in her hands. ‘There, now – get that inside of you, and we’ll pretty you up in your new muslin, for your Mama says you may watch the guests arrive—’
They watched together, from the top of the main stairs. Carriage after carriage rolled to a halt outside the door: at one point the waiting queue reached almost the length of the drive. Maria and William Hawthorne, splendidly robed as King Arthur and his Queen, stood in the hall beneath, meeting their guests as they arrived. Fortune tellers and Indian nabobs, gypsies and Romans, Greeks and figures from legend advanced, were greeted, and disappeared up the secondary staircase to the Long Gallery. To the watching child it was the most splendid and exciting gathering she had ever seen, and she longed almost to the point of sickness to be a part of it.
At last the flood of arriving guests became a trickle. From the Gallery came the sound of music and of laughter. Almost the last to arrive were Robert’s parents and their daughter Clara.
Jessica’s eyes and mouth opened together in wondering astonishment. Sir Thomas and Lady FitzBolton, dumpy, homely figures both, had chosen the roles of Pierot and Pierette, at least the dozenth couple to have done so and, Jessica had to admit, dearly as she loved them, possibly the least distinguished. Clara it was who drew the eye. If Jessica had not known herself certainly to be the only person who knew of Caroline’s costume for the evening she might have believed Clara to have designed hers in deliberate opposition. For Clara, May notwithstanding, was an Ice Queen, decked in lace fragile as frosted cobwebs, glittering and sparkling, feathered with snow. Upon her piled dark hair a tall and elegantly needle-pointed crown of silver icicles added to her height and to her regal bearing. Never had she looked so handsome. As she stood, waiting to be presented, Giles appeared at the top of the stairs that led to the Long Gallery. Seeing her, he stopped, poised. Clara lifted her eyes and smiled, very slightly. Giles, a dashing and very handsome cavalier, did not. Long sword swinging easily at his side, his hat with its sweeping plume in his hand he walked slowly down the stairs, his eyes intent upon his future bride. Always graceful in his movements it seemed to Jessica, watching, that in that moment he moved like a stalking cat, tension singing in him, barely constrained. Irresistibly she was reminded of the scene in the woods. Clara had greeted her future parents-in-law and now composedly awaited Giles’ approach. As he neared her she lifted a graceful yet oddly imperious white-gloved hand. For a single moment he hesitated, then took it, and in keeping with his gallant role lifted it and brushed it with his lips. Clara’s mother clapped delightedly. Jessica frowned. Something, somehow, was horribly wrong. She could not explain her feeling, even to herself, she only knew in that moment that in Giles some violence lived and that Clara, far from gentling it, as was needed, thrived upon – perhaps even encouraged – it. The two were mounting the stairs together, a fine-looking young couple. Their parents, from below, watched them, pleasant pride upon the FitzBoltons’ faces, a smile upon William Hawthorne’s. Only Jessica, from her vantage point, saw the look that Clara turned upon Giles; sweetly barbed, purely triumphant. And only Jessica saw the flinch of pain in the girl’s face as Giles’ hand tightened brutally over hers, a flicker only, and then she laughed, the same pealing laughter that Jessica had heard in the woods, that was then swallowed by music and the hum of voices as the pair entered the ballroom.
‘Time for bed, Miss Jessie,’ Lucy said, regretfully, from beside. ‘Come down to say goodnight to your Mama and Papa, and then we must go.’
Later, and for a long time, Jessica lay listening to the sounds that filtered to her ears from the rooms below. Next year – oh, please God! – next year she would be down there – dancing, laughing.
Her imagination furnished her with a silken dress, a handsome partner. Somewhere in a corner Robert glowered jealously.
Yet, oddly, the last thing that slipped into her mind before she drifted at last into the mists of sleep was a sound; the sound of laughter, mocking and musical.
Clara’s laughter.
Chapter Three
At the end of May Robert left to visit his schoolfriend in Devon. The day before he went, Jessica dined at Old Hall – the meals there following the traditional fashion of dinner at midday and supper in the evening rather than the new trend of dining in the evening as Jessica’s parents did – and in the afternoon she and Robert walked along the river to St Agatha’s and climbed onto ‘their’ tombstone. Jessica drew her knees up and rested her chin on them, gloomily and in silence picking at the burrs that had attached themselves to her skirt.
‘Oh, do cheer up, Jess!’ Robert’s voice, whilst not altogether unkind, held an unmistakable edge of impatience. ‘Anyone would think I was going away for ever! It’s only a couple of months – I’ll be back before you know it. And then it’ll be harvest time – think of the fun we’ll have—’
She scowled. ‘It’s all right for you! You aren’t going to be stuck here on your own with Caroline moping and Clara lording it over everyone!’ She stopped, biting her lip, then burst out, ‘Oh, Robert, I do wish you weren’t going!’
Robert watched her for a moment, his face intent, then he turned away. ‘You’re acting as if it were a hanging offence to visit a schoolfriend. Lord, your own brother’s off visiting friends, isn’t he? He didn’t even bother to come home at the end of term!’
Jessica, who in common with the rest of the family had in fact hardly noticed quiet John’s absence, shrugged peevishly and said nothing.
‘You have to understand, Jessica, that you can’t order other people’s lives. I’m going, and I refuse to pretend that I’m not looking forward to it. I’m sorry to be leaving you, but I intend to enjoy every minute of being with Paul and his family, of seeing somewhere different—’
S
haken from her woeful self-absorption by the near-anger of his tone she cast a swift sideways look at him. ‘I’m sorry. Of course you’re right. And I do hope you have a lovely time. Truly I do.’ Visions of Paul Aloway’s no doubt charming sisters – she had a clear picture of them both as Dresden figures, fair and tiny and very beautiful – rose in her mind and, miserably, she leaned on her knees again, chewing at a dirty thumb.
They sat in silence for a while.
‘My father’s found someone to do the church,’ Robert said after a moment, his voice challengingly light in the awkward silence.
‘Do it?’
‘Yes. You know – clean and renovate the statues and things, so it’s worthy of a FitzBolton-Hawthorne wedding.’ The words were dry. ‘Lord, you don’t think Clara’s going to be satisfied with it the way it is, do you?’
Jessica shrugged. ‘Strikes me she isn’t satisfied with anything. Caroline said she’s already talking about the changes she’ll make at New Hall when she’s running the house—’
‘Deer in the park and peacocks on the lawns—’ Robert said.
‘She’s told you, too, has she? She’s got some sauce your sister, hasn’t she? It’s Mama’s business to run New Hall, after all – and will be for years yet—’
‘How does your mother get on with Clara?’ There was real interest in Robert’s voice.
‘Mama?’ Jessica shrugged again. ‘She likes her well enough, I think. With Edward gone Giles certainly has to marry, and she seems to think Clara as good a choice as any.’
‘Wait till she has to live with her.’
‘Wait till we all do!’ Deep gloom had descended upon Jessica again.
Robert laughed. ‘Oh, come on, she isn’t really that bad!’ He jumped lightly down onto the path and waited as she scrambled down beside him. ‘She can actually be quite civilized when she tries—’
This was not, however, a view with which Caroline would have agreed. Her erstwhile, never more than circumstantial friendship with the other girl had failed totally to withstand what she saw as Clara’s deviousness, firstly in courting Giles with never a single confidential whisper or hint to her, and then, crime of crimes in Caroline’s eyes, in persuading him to marry her before Caroline herself had a ring upon her finger. Over the past year, her own match made, Caroline had made too many sweetly commiserating remarks about ‘poor’ Clara’s apparent lack of prospects to doubt the direct malice of the timing.
The Hawthorne Heritage Page 7
