The Hawthorne Heritage

by The Hawthorne Heritage (retail) (epub)

  Jessica, penned in her pew, watched. The young stranger was completely lost in his task, his light breathing and the rustle of his movements the only sound as he examined the worn and defaced stone. Jessica had been told by Sir Robert that it had been Roundhead soldiers who had caused most of the damage to St Agatha’s, whilst hunting for fleeing Royalists after the Siege of Colchester. She did not know the truth of the story. The young man picked some clay from the bowl and began moulding it between his fingers. So totally preoccupied was he that the child was certain that if she had wished she could have made good her escape; but she did not. Enthralled she watched him, watched the play of light on the skilful fingers and on the grave and flawless face as he began to work upon the statue. Again she experienced the now familiar, though still inexplicable mixture of feelings that the presence of the young man stirred in her; excitement, an odd tenderness at the sight of the bent, absorbed head, a yearning – for what she could not say, but none the less strong for that. Quiet as a mouse she crouched, eyes wide and unblinking upon the stranger, whilst in the world outside the summer storm moved closer.

  It was the storm that broke the spell. For almost an hour it had rumbled from a distance, sunshine still falling softly through the church’s tiny windows to add to the illumination of the candles that flickered on the table and on the altar. It was with the abruptness of a closing curtain that the light was suddenly cut off as the storm clouds rolled across the sun. The young man looked up, frowning, his concentration broken by the unexpected darkness. Jessica heard him mutter something under his breath. Then, wiping his hands on his shirt he strode to the door and looked out. In the same moment it dawned on Jessica that if she were to have any chance of avoiding MacKenzie’s wrath at wet clothes and hair she had best leave now. Under cover of an ear-splitting crash of thunder she slipped from the pew and scuttled through the shadows towards the door. Beyond the young man’s silhouetted figure she saw a violent and jagged flash of lightning, livid in the queer storm-darkness. The man stood for a moment looking out to where the pre-storm wind tossed wildly through the treetops then, shrugging, he turned. Jessica slipped behind a pillar, then, choosing her moment, she picked up her skirts and ran like a hare. She heard a shout from behind her, and something that sounded suspiciously like laughter, then she was gone, running sure-footed through the trees towards the park.

  She had left it too late. By the time she reached the edge of the woodland huge spots of rain had started to fall, rattling through the branches above her head like flung stones. Overhead thunder and lightning crashed together and she jumped at the violence of the sound. The roiling, purple clouds echoed menacingly. The rain was coming down harder with every second, threatening a downpour to drown her. She hesitated, uncertain whether to stay beneath the trees and risk the lightning or make a dash for it across the open, rain-lashed but relatively safe expanse of the parkland. As she stood, undecided, the sound of hoofbeats lifted above the buffeting of the wind. Skirting the woodland from her right came John, grinning and waving, riding sturdy Old Jenny as hard as the staid and solid mare could manage. Puzzled for a moment as to where he could have sprung from she remembered the small bridge that crossed the river from the Long Melford Road, close by Old Hall. He must have cut across it trying to beat the storm home. Relieved, she smiled widely and waved back.

  ‘Here—’ He reached a hand. ‘Hop up!’

  Laughing she allowed him to swing her, light as a bird, before him on the saddle. Jenny tossed her head as the storm crashed above them again, and John clapped his heels to her side, urging her to an ungainly gallop. Minutes later, with the downpour truly upon them, they were safely in the stables of New Hall, none the worse for wear.

  It was not until that night, comfortable and close to sleep, that it occurred to Jessica to wonder how it was that John, who had ostensibly set off on an errand to Lavenham, had come back from entirely the opposite direction via the Long Melford Road. Sleepily she resolved to ask him the next day, but by morning had quite forgotten the resolution.

  * * *

  It was two days later that – almost certainly by design – the stranger caught her.

  She had ridden to Old Hall to take tea with Robert’s parents, and to discover if they had news of him. The short note they had received assured them of his good health and happiness and asked that he be remembered to Jessica. As she mounted Apple, her pony, to ride home – Old Hall being virtually within the park she was allowed to ride there unaccompanied – she reflected with faint surprise that it had been some time since she had fretted jealously at the thought of the Dresden-figure sisters. She set Apple to the river path, his hooves quiet upon the grass. She hoped – sincerely now – that Robert was having a happy time. She had thought his note a little non-commital, though Clara had dismissed any worries about that brusquely – ‘Heavens, Jessica, he’s a boy! What else do you expect? When did you ever know a man write a civilized letter when a military note will do?’

  She was approaching the church, and could make no pretence to herself that she could ride by without seeing if her stranger were there. She tethered Apple near the river and slipped through the gate and along the path. The church was empty, dark and silent. Disappointment, surprising in its depth, drew her straight brows together in a frown. She did not understand why it had become an irresistible compulsion to see the strange young man, she only knew that undeniably it had. She knew his face now as well as she knew her own, knew too his habit of singing to himself beneath his breath, recognized now the foreign-sounding tune that he most often hummed. Pausing for a moment now to reassure herself that the church was indeed empty she slipped through the shadowed gloom to the altar. The statue stood, the implements he had been using laid at her feet, as if just that moment discarded. A warning bell rang in her mind. She turned.

  Silent as a cat he had come up behind her, and stood now, grinning. ‘So. My little Mouse in a trap at last.’

  She took a couple of stumbling steps backwards. He reached for her. Suddenly and irrationally afraid she shrank away from him, trapped by the altar rail.

  The smile left his face. He shook his head. ‘Don’t be afraid, little Mouse. I won’t hurt you.’

  She said nothing.

  He let his hands drop to his sides. Swift as thought she launched herself past him, but he was as quick as she. A long arm took her about the waist and swung her from the floor.

  ‘Oh, no you don’t, little one! Not as easily as that! Not until I know why you’ve been spying on me—?’

  That cut sharply. ‘I haven’t been spying!’ Something in the indignant tone arrested his laughter. Very carefully he set her upon her feet, his hands upon her shoulders, that dark face bent to hers interestedly.

  ‘You haven’t? Then it must have been another little mouse that I started the day before yesterday? Is the country full of them?’ He raised quizzical eyebrows.

  She did not answer, but treacherous colour crept into her cheeks.

  ‘It wasn’t you?’

  She shrugged. His speech, like his appearance, was different from any other she had ever encountered. Clearly enunciated, the tone obviously educated, yet there was an indefinable accent there, more perhaps in the rhythm and cadence of his voice than in the pronunciation itself.

  ‘So. It was you.’ He regarded her solemnly for a moment, then let go of her shoulders and straightened. ‘Perhaps – we should start again?’ He waited, then as she did not respond, sketched her a small, half-mocking bow. ‘My name is Danilo. Danilo O’Donnel. My friends call me Danny.’ He waited, expectant.

  ‘I’m Jessica Hawthorne.’

  ‘Jessica Hawthorne.’ He rolled the name portentiously, then smiled a smile of pure mischief that made her heart lurch in a most uncomfortable way. ‘Personally, Miss Jessica Hawthorne, I think Mouse suits you better. Small, brown, and quick as that!’ He clapped his hands sharply, and she jumped, then flushed again as he laughed.

  He sat on a pew, patted the seat beside hi
m. ‘Come.’

  Her escape route was clear. She had only to run, and they both knew it. Gingerly she perched herself beside him.

  ‘Now, where do you come from, Jessica Hawthorne?’

  She indicated a general direction with an inclination of her head. ‘From the house at the top of the lake. New Hall.’

  His eyes widened very slightly. ‘Do you indeed?’ He paused for a moment, to consider this. ‘So – you are a relation of the groom?’

  ‘He’s my brother.’ As always at thought of Giles Jessica grimaced a little, and the young man laughed.

  ‘I see. And – may I ask—’ the words were teasingly courteous, ‘—how it is that our paths seem to have crossed rather frequently lately?’

  She kept the shreds of her dignity about her and refused to be seduced by the open invitation to laughter offered by his merry eyes and smiling mouth. ‘I wanted to see what you were doing.’

  ‘Ah.’ Strangely, the answer appeared to satisfy him completely. Silence fell.

  She eyed him. ‘Where do you come from?’

  ‘The cottage down the lane.’ His expression was innocent.

  Still she would not laugh. Neither would she be deflected. ‘I mean – before.’

  He nodded, accepting her question seriously for all his teasing. ‘Edinburgh. And before that Lincoln. And before that London. Anywhere that folk will pay me to restore ruin to beauty.’ He glanced about him.

  ‘What did you say your name was?’ In her interest she was forgetting her fright. She leaned forward, intent.

  ‘Danny. Danny O’Donnel.’

  ‘No. I mean—’ she paused, ‘—the other name. The funny one.’

  He laughed. ‘Danilo. Danilo O’Donnel. A little strange, yes?’

  She nodded.

  ‘My mother was Italian, my father Irish. An explosive mixture, I’m afraid.’ He smiled, the warmth of him like the summer sun. ‘I look like my mother, and I drink like my father. I was born in Florence. I am an artist. A sculptor. But at the moment a little down on my luck. My birthday is in March, I have all my teeth and I’m scared to death of horses. There. Danny O’Donnel in a nutshell for you, little Mouse.’

  She laughed delightedly. ‘You can’t really be scared of horses?’

  ‘Can’t I?’ He put his head on one side, comically, as if considering. ‘And here I’ve lived for twenty years thinking I was!’

  She giggled again. ‘Are you Irish or Italian?’

  He looked at her admiringly. ‘What a very perceptive question. I don’t know. What do you think?’

  Jessica considered. ‘Irish, I should think.’

  He shrugged. ‘That’ll do. For now anyway.’

  ‘Don’t you care?’ The child, brought up in the unthinking nationalistic pride of an English upper middle class family, was astonished.

  For a moment the laughter fled the dark face. ‘Oh, yes, little Mouse, I care. For I am Florentine. Italian? Irish? This means nothing. But Florentine – that is to be a part of the most beautiful city in the world. To have some share in her treasures – her art, her music, her sculpture. To be at home in her squares and gardens. To be at one with her people.’

  Jessica had never come across anyone with quite such a poetic turn of phrase. She was enthralled. ‘Did you just make that up?’

  He shouted with laughter. ‘I most certainly did.’ He pretended indignation.

  ‘It was very good.’

  He bowed, gracefully for all that he was sitting down. ‘Thank you.’

  Her mind had jumped back to the original thread of their conversation. ‘Why don’t you live there?’

  ‘Ah.’ In the turning of a moment again the merriment fled. He turned his head a little, looking with unseeing eyes up to where the multi-coloured light flickered through the stained glass windows. Her heart lurched, watching him, seeing the sadness. After a moment, as if realizing she still awaited an answer to her question he said, ‘For the moment I cannot.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Half exasperated he smiled. ‘What an extremely inquisitive little mouse you are!’

  She flushed, and seeing it, he laid a hand on her arm, gently. ‘Ah, no. Don’t be angry with me. I’ll tell you. My mother was of good family, my father a penniless sculptor. The marriage – if indeed there were a marriage, I’ve never been truly certain—’ Jessica’s eyes widened at such devastating honesty, ‘—was not one of which my mother’s people could approve. We lived in the tenements across the river from the city, on the banks of the Arno, near the Pitti Palace. We lived with others of our kind – penniless artists, sculptors, actors, musicians – and, oh, little Mouse, what a world it was!’ His head was bent to her, his eyes bright as gems in the shadows. Jessica was enthralled. ‘Life was a celebration. Always there was sunshine, and laughter. Always there was wine, and music and above all friendship. Sometimes my mother would take me across the Ponte Vecchio to visit my grandparents’ house. Very fine it seemed to me, with a courtyard, and a fountain and marble floors. But home was where my parents were, and their friends, and their laughter and loving—’

  ‘What happened?’

  He shrugged. ‘The French came. There were disturbances. The French preach revolution. My grandparents were of the old order. My grandfather defied them. When they came to arrest him he resisted and was shot. My mother and grandmother were shot with him. Accidentally, so the soldiers said.’ He paused for a moment, then added softly, ‘See what happens when men of violence rule—’

  The child had drawn from him in horror, her hands at her mouth. As if coming to himself he shook his head, and his voice was gentle. ‘Don’t grieve. There is nothing to be gained.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘But, yes, it was a terrible thing. A savage thing. A waste. But it is over. My father escaped from Florence, taking me with him, and brought me to England. He educated me and cared for me. Before death took him he taught me much, perhaps enough for me one day to be a great sculptor. I don’t know. This is for the future. For now—’ he spread long-fingered hands, ‘I am what you see – a mender of statues, a redeemer of churches, a fighter against the decay of beauty – and yes, before you ask, I made that up myself as well—’

  The mood lightened. They smiled. Then, reluctantly, she stood up. ‘I have to go. Will you be here tomorrow?’

  He nodded.

  ‘If I can get away – may I come again?’

  His smile was warm as the June sunshine. ‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure.’

  She rode home across the park, singing.

  * * *

  From that moment every second spent away from Danny was for Jessica wasted, and the friendship between child and young man became as firm as it was unlikely. Any moment she could snatch was spent in the church with him, and the scoldings and slappings she risked from disappearing so often from New Hall deterred her not at all. They talked of everything under the sun – of the ways of birds and the flight of butterflies, of the sound of a word and the subtlety of its meaning, of the smell of new-baked bread and the delights of clover honey. Now that she no longer hid from him Bran came too, and it was no surprise at all to Jessica that man and dog became friends on sight. Danny talked easily of his recent life, and from him she learned of the ways of a rootless itinerant artist, feckless, free and devoted to two things – the stone he worked and, always, the city in which he had been born. ‘Ah, Mouse – when you are a beautiful woman you must visit her! Her young men will court you and paint wonderful portraits, and I, a penniless sculptor living in a hovel on the banks of the Arno will say – I knew her first, before her fame—’ The summer rain pattered beyond the doors, and the air was chill. ‘Wait till you see the golden light of sunset on the river – the tumbling red roofs, the towers and spires – it is a city of magic.’

  She was enthralled. ‘Is it really that beautiful? I mean – really and truly?’

  ‘Really and truly.’ He turned from the statue on which he had been working, gesturing with cla
y-damp hands as if to conjure the city from the dark air. ‘Palaces. Churches. Tall campaniles whose bells are the music of Florence. Museums. Theatres. In the Boboli Gardens the lovers kiss and the children play, and at every turn there is a sculpture to delight the eye. Paris? Rome? St Petersburg?’ He shook his head, making a small puffing noise with his mouth, ‘None of them can compare

  Her eyes widened. ‘You’ve been to Paris? And St Petersburg?’

  He smiled gracelessly, and shrugged a little. ‘Not yet. But what difference? The impossible is impossible – and it isn’t possible to find another city as lovely as Florence.’ He picked up the stone bottle that always stood beside him as he worked and tilted his head to drink, then wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. She watched him, as she watched the smallest of his movements, in fascination. He pointed a finger, his face almost serious. ‘One day, Mouse, when Europe is free again, I shall go back. And I shall be the greatest living sculptor in Florence.’

  She believed him implicitly; for Jessica, innocently, had lost her heart entirely. On the vulnerable threshold of adulthood, and until now, for a child who lived apparently with almost constant companionship, strangely lonely, she had found in this warm and volatile young man a prince, the fitting subject of all her half-formed growing dreams. She listened, enchanted, and, in listening so, encouraged him to greater and more bewitching flights of fancy. As he spoke she could all but see and smell and hear the city he extolled – the wide, slow-moving river, amber ripples beneath the shadows of the Ponte Vecchio, the green hills beyond patched with olive groves and the dark fingers of cypress, the busy, colourful streets and squares, the lovely buildings. In her mind Florence became a place of mystery and delight hardly second to paradise if Danny were there to share it. As for Danny himself – he found in the child an open, astute and receptive mind, a flatteringly attentive audience for the expression of his own dreams. Not for one moment did the young man perceive the quality of the devotion in the bright, dark eyes that watched him as he worked, nor the depths of his own influence on the child. He saw a charming and intelligent little girl, perhaps a little solemn but with a sturdy independence and a subversive sense of humour that delighted him; in short, he saw a friend, improbable perhaps, but none the less welcome for that. Not once did it occur to him to see in her the budding of adolescence and with it the pain and wonder of first love.