The Hawthorne Heritage

by The Hawthorne Heritage (retail) (epub)

  Jessica nodded shyly, offering the book of poetry that she carried for her mother’s inspection.

  Maria waved a white hand. ‘I leave it to you, my dear. Start with your favourite, if you wish. Mr Wordsworth suits my mood well enough this afternoon. Caroline – ring for some tea, would you? Now, Jessica, let us see if MacKenzie’s grudging praise of your reading talent is justified—’ Her mouth quirked in a small, surprising smile and her glance was almost conspiratorial. Astonished, but more than happy to oblige her mother in this, the only ladylike pursuit in which if she did not actually excel at least she could hold her own, Jessica settled upon the stool next to her mother and opened the book at a much-thumbed page. The next hour passed very pleasantly. She had a true love of poetry, and could communicate that as she read, the lovely rhythm of the words singing in her mind as she spoke, the imagery firing an imagination already, according to MacKenzie, woefully inclined to the romantic. After a while her mother laid aside her needlework and took the book, and in her low, well-modulated voice read extracts from her own favourite work, Milton’s Paradise Lost. Jessica was enthralled, John Milton’s command of the poetic language conjuring for her another world, of fiery angels, mystic landscapes and searing emotion.

  ‘—Now glowed the firmament/ With living sapphires: Hesperus that led/ The starry host, rode brightest, till the moon/ Rising in cloudy majesty, at length/ Apparent Queen, unveiled her peerless light—’ Maria stopped.

  Jessica, absorbed, her eyes upon the glowing depths of the fire, looked up in surprise at the sudden silence, then saw, as her mother had a second before, that Caroline, who for an hour or more had sat staring from the window contributing little or nothing to the conversation, had bowed her head to her hands and was crying desperately and silently, her shoulders shaking.

  ‘Why, Caroline – my dear – whatever is the matter? Are you ill?’ Maria, concerned, laid aside the book and went to her daughter, laying a light arm across the narrow, heaving shoulders.

  Caroline did not lift her head, but her sobs redoubled.

  ‘Caroline?’ Maria’s voice had sharpened and was edged with worry. ‘Come, child. What is it?’

  ‘I – have to speak to you—’ The words were muffled, broken by sobs. ‘Oh, please, Mother, I have to! I fear I shall go mad—!’

  ‘Oh, come now!’ Firmly Maria lifted her daughter’s chin and looked into the lovely, tearful face. ‘What can possibly be that bad?’

  Caroline pulled away from her, crying distractedly. ‘Send Jessica away. Please! Oh, please, Mother – I have to talk to you. Alone!’

  Maria hesitated, frowning. There was no doubting Caroline’s distress, nor the fraught edge of hysteria in her voice. She turned to Jessica, who had come to her feet and was staring at her sister an odd, half-concerned, half-wary expression on her face. ‘Jessica—’ her mother was faintly apologetic, ‘—you see the state your sister is in. It’s best that you should go.’

  Jessica stood a moment longer, desperately and fearfully – and unsuccessfully – trying to catch Caroline’s eye.

  ‘Please, Jessica.’ Her mother was gently insistent.

  ‘Very well, Mama.’

  ‘Good girl. I’ll see you at dinner. Do wear the brown velvet. It suits you very well.’

  ‘Yes, Mama.’

  Caroline sobbed on, frenziedly, her face buried once more in her hands. Jessica cast her one, ferocious look. ‘Caroline—!’

  ‘Best you should leave her to me, I think, Jessica. Off you go.’ The slight sharpness in her mother’s tone brooked neither argument nor any further delay. Reluctantly Jessica left.

  Outside, with the door not quite shut, she stopped. In this private and more informal part of the house the corridor was empty. In suspicion and fearful distrust she leaned to the door, listening. She heard her mother’s quiet, soothing voice, then Caroline’s, lifted hysterically, the words all but indistinguishable in the wild sobbing that accompanied them. Jessica strained her ears. ‘—Oh, Mother, the disgrace! I shall die! I know I shall! I can’t have it! I won’t! Oh, I wish I were dead – and the child with me! I’ve been so afraid! Afraid to tell you – to tell Father – oh, Mama, please! Don’t let him beat me – don’t let him beat me as he beat John! I couldn’t bear it! I couldn’t—!’

  Maria’s voice murmured again, low and sharp.

  ‘No! Of course not! How can you think it!’ Caroline was all but screaming, entirely out of control. ‘He forced me! I swear it! It was horrible! He hurt me – and I was so afraid – so ashamed – I couldn’t tell you! I couldn’t. And now – oh, God! I’ll kill myself, I swear I will—!’

  ‘Caroline!’ Maria’s sharp voice carried clearly to the all but paralyzed child hidden beyond the door. ‘Calm down! Caroline!’ There came the swift and unmistakable sound of a slap. Caroline drew a gasping breath and for a shocked moment was silent. ‘Now.’ Maria’s voice was grimmer than Jessica had ever heard it. ‘Begin at the beginning. Tell me everything.’

  Jessica leaned against the wall. Her heart was beating painfully and the blood rushed uncomfortably in her ears. There was no doubt in her mind as to what Caroline was doing – nor what the consequences for Danny would be once the squalid story Caroline was sobbing out so pathetically and so treacherously to her mother was carried to her father. That Caroline would save her own skin at the expense of Danny’s she had no doubt; yet in that awful, blank moment she could see no way to stop it. No one would listen to her, of that she was sure – confronting Caroline with her lies would do nothing but harm.

  As she stood, trembling and irresolute, she heard sudden movement within the room, and once again her mother’s voice came clearly to her. ‘Stay here. I’ll see your father at once. You’ll have to face him later – but once he hears the truth of it be assured he won’t punish you.’ The emphasis on the final pronoun was grim. ‘For now, I’ll see him alone—’

  Hearing the brisk, hurrying footsteps Jessica gathered her wits enough to duck into a nearby open doorway. She caught the briefest glimpse of her mother’s face, bone-white and outraged, as she passed and then she was gone and Jessica flew back to the sitting room door, throwing it open with a crash fit to tear it from its supports. ‘What have you done?’

  Caroline was sitting in an armchair, her face blotched, sobbing into a sodden rag of handkerchief. She jumped, startled and afraid, at her sister’s precipitate entrance.

  ‘What have you done?’ Jessica was across the room and was upon her, shaking her. ‘You’re wicked! Wicked! What have you told her?’

  Caroline, face blazing, wrenched herself from the younger girl’s grip. ‘Go away! Go away! This is all your fault—!’

  ‘You’ve told her something awful about Danny, haven’t you? You’ve told lies about him, haven’t you? Haven’t you?’

  ‘Get away from me!’ Caroline pushed her hard, and she almost fell. The hysterical tears had started again. Jessica stood for a moment staring at her sister in disgust and dislike before whirling and running from the room, following the direction that her mother had taken. If her father were out – if there were just some time to warn Danny—

  She heard her father before she even reached the main wing of the house. ‘Giles? Giles! Here, to me! At once!’

  Jessica flew to the top of the stairs. Down in the entrance hall her father, his face grim with anger, was struggling into his riding coat assisted by a frightened-looking young footman. ‘Giles!’

  Giles, his face the picture of astonishment, was standing halfway up the stairs. ‘Father? What is it?’

  William looked up and never, not even in facing John’s defiance, had Jessica seen such a distortion of rage upon his face. ‘Fetch the gunroom key. Get four men together. Tell Jessup to saddle half a dozen mounts. Hurry.’

  ‘But what—?’

  ‘Do it. I’ll tell you as we ride. We’ve vermin to hunt.’ William took his riding whip from the quailing footman and slashed in furious impatience at a small marble table. ‘The gunroom key,
Giles! Hurry, I say!’

  Jessica ran. Fighting tears of terror she ran on slippered feet along the corridor to the west wing, almost bowling over an astonished maidservant as she turned a corner. At breakneck speed she tumbled down the stairs and out into the cold and darkening afternoon, dashing to the stables, her feet winged by fear for Danny. She hardly felt the cold that struck chillingly through her thin indoor gown nor felt the sharp stones that cut her feet through slippers thin as paper. As she reached the stables Apple lifted his head, blowing warm affection, and Bran launched himself at her all but bowling her over. ‘Oh, no – Bran, you can’t come! Stay! Bran – stay!’ Frantic, she shrieked the word at him. The dog’s ears drooped. ‘Down!’ Her hand was entangled in Apple’s shaggy mane. There was no time for saddle or bridle. ‘Down!’ she shouted again at the dog. Bran, dispirited, fell back upon his haunches. She jumped and swung herself onto the pony’s warm, smooth back. Fortunately at this time of day the stables were quiet, though in the distance she could already hear the sound of raised voices and running feet. Her heart in her mouth at their closeness she guided Apple out of the stableyard and set him at a flat run across the park.

  Danny was in his cottage, as she had guessed he would be with the early darkness closing in. Before the labouring Apple had fairly stopped Jessica had flung herself from his back and was pounding at the door. ‘Danny! Danny, open the door!’

  The door swung back and Danny stood there, blinking in astonishment. ‘Jessica! What in the world—?’

  She wasted no words. ‘Father’s coming!. And Giles! They’ve got guns! Danny, they’ve found out! About you and Caroline – she’s told the most terrible lies – they’re going to kill you! You have to get away. Hurry—!’

  He stared at her. Shook his head.

  ‘Danny!’ She was frantic. ‘Don’t you hear me? Caroline’s told them—! They’re coming here with guns—’

  ‘Told them? About the child? But yes – we knew she’d have to, now—’

  She shook his arm fiercely. ‘You don’t understand! She lied! She said the most terrible things about you. And Father believes them. And now he’s coming with men, and guns – oh, Danny, you’ve got to get away—!’ She was crying now, tears streaming disregarded down her cheeks. ‘Oh, please! – hurry!’

  He stepped back, shaking his head. ‘No – Caroline? She wouldn’t—!’ He stopped, baffled incredulity in his eyes.

  ‘She did! I heard her! She told Mother that you – forced her – that you hurt her—’

  ‘Oh my God,’ he said.

  ‘And now they’re coming, with guns. Danny, you have to get away. You can’t face them. They’ll kill you!’

  ‘She – said that? That I’d – forced her? – hurt her?’

  His face was white as paper. She could not look at it. ‘Yes,’ she said.

  He shook his head, shock still holding him. ‘But – there must be a mistake. A misunderstanding. We were to leave together. Tomorrow—’

  For the first time Jessica noticed the bare tidiness of the hut, that was usually such a living shambles. A small bundle of clothes lay upon the table. She shook her head fiercely. ‘Caroline? Oh, Danny – are you mad? Caroline won’t come with you. She never would.’

  But I would. Oh, I would. Anywhere— The words echoed wildly in her heart, unspoken. Unwanted.

  He was still struggling with disbelief. ‘But she said—’

  She all but screamed at him. ‘Will you stop arguing? They’re coming! Now! They’re coming with guns because of the lies that Caroline has told them. Danny, she doesn’t want your baby. She told Mother she wished she was dead, and the child with her. I heard her!’

  He stood for a single moment longer, and then, at last galvanized into action he turned, moving swiftly to the table and grabbing the bundle that lay there. ‘Money,’ he said, his voice suddenly sharp and clear, ‘I’ll need money—’ He went to a drawer and took out a small bag that clinked as he dropped it into his pocket. Then he ran back to the door where Jessica waited. Faint hoofbeats sounded, and a man’s voice lifted distantly.

  ‘It sounds as if they’re going to the church first,’ she said, more calmly than she could herself believe, though her voice trembled and her stomach roiled with sickness. ‘You’ve a few more minutes. Take Apple. He’ll carry you. But hurry!’

  He shook his head. ‘No. I’m better afoot. That beast would unseat me in a hundred yards – and if they caught me there’d be a hanging charge to my name if I were riding your horse. Anyway, I’ll not embroil you further. I’ll get down to the bridge and slip across country to Sudbury. There’s a coach leaves for London—’

  ‘No! They’re bound to look there when they realize you’ve gone. Go further afield before you take a coach!’

  He nodded and turned to go. Then, swiftly, he turned back and hugged her fiercely, hurting her with the strength of his arms, his cheek pressed hard against her hair. ‘Thank you, little Mouse. God keep you.’ He turned his face in her hair and she felt the pressure of his lips. ‘Bless you,’ he said, and then he released her and was gone, fled into the darkness of the woods. And with him fled the last vestiges of Jessica Hawthorne’s childhood. She had saved him, her dark angel, but in doing so she had lost him. She would never see him again.

  Dully she remounted Apple and trotted him back through the woodlands towards the park and the great house.

  Part Two

  1815–1817

  Chapter Six

  Waterloo.

  The word was on everyone’s lips.

  Waterloo.

  Near this small and hitherto unheard-of village in Belgium that until that mid-June day of 1815 could never have dreamed of such lifelong notoriety, Napoleon’s might, at last, had come to nothing. In England and all over Europe the bells rang jubilantly for victory, and in every town and village Wellington’s success was fêted. Melbury was no exception. Seventeen-year-old Jessica Hawthorne, deceptively demure and slight in pale green silk and a large, shading bonnet, sat with her mother in an open carriage on the edge of the green and smiled with unaffected delight at the village children who danced energetically around a hastily-erected Maypole.

  ‘What a good idea to have just red, white and blue ribbons! It makes a very patriotic show, doesn’t it, Mama? – Mama?’ she prompted, turning her head to look at her mother.

  Maria Hawthorne’s preoccupied gaze was fixed not on the dancing children, but upon her husband, who was engaged in conversation with a group of men on the far side of the green. Jessica’s eyes followed her mother’s, and her smile faded. The past months had seen a marked and frightening change in William Hawthorne, and although, almost as if in conspiracy, no one openly spoke of it those nearest to him were both acutely aware of it and even more acutely apprehensive of what it might betoken. And in the past weeks his physical decline had accelerated. His handsome, ruddy face had lost its colour, his large, spare frame shed weight that it could ill-afford. Despite all his efforts it was sometimes impossible for him to disguise the fact that he was in considerable pain. Suddenly grey-faced he would turn from the company, or leave a room with no excuse and no explanation, leaving behind him a concerned silence that was laced with uncertainty and question. With terrifying and savage rapidity a vigorous man was wasting away before their eyes, and no amount of frightened self-deception could disguise it. Only last week Jessica had ridden up to the house in time to see Mr Jeffries, the family physician – who was only called in times of dire need – deep in conversation with her mother at the top of the steps. As she had pulled her mare to a sharp standstill the man had doffed his hat, grave and unsmiling, before bending briefly and solemnly over Maria’s slim hand and mounting to his carriage. Her mother’s face as she had watched the carriage drive away had brought Jessica’s heart to her throat in a sudden spasm of panic. What could the man have said to produce such naked grief in one whose emotions were almost always masked? For the past week she had tried desperately not to remember that look, not to watch
her father, not to see that which it was becoming impossible to ignore. William Hawthorne’s pain grew worse by the day, and his constitution, once so robust, could no longer fight it. He stood now, leaning heavily upon a stick, talking to Squire James, a local Justice of the Peace, whose own face showed a politely disguised shock of concern.

  The music and the rhythmic sound of the bells the children wore jigged on.

  ‘Your father is dying, Jessica,’ Maria said, suddenly and quietly, her voice strangely distant, as if she did not herself believe the words she spoke.

  Jessica sat, rooted in shock.

  Across the green her father doubled over, coughing, his face a distortion of pain. The squire stepped to him, anxious hand outstretched. William waved him impatiently away, fought for breath, then straightened. Try as she might, Jessica could not speak. Her throat appeared to have closed up altogether. She turned stricken eyes to her mother.

  Maria nodded. ‘It’s true. You see it is.’ Then, ‘I’m sorry,’ she said softly, ‘I should not have told you in such fashion. I had not planned it so. I just—’ she shook her head in an odd and uncharacteristically perplexed fashion ‘—I just had to tell someone.’

  ‘Does he know?’

  Maria nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And yet – the ball tonight? And – all this—?’ Jessica spread her hands, indicating the revelry around them.

  ‘But of course.’ Faint reproof edged her mother’s voice. ‘A great victory must be celebrated. The people expect it.’

  Jessica swallowed protest. She had known, she realized now, without being told, for the past few days at least. What difference did it make after all that the unthinkable had been put into words? Her mother was right. Life went on. And William Hawthorne would have been the last to deny it.