‘Lots of people do, Mama,’ Jessica said, and was rewarded by a coolly unamused lift of her mother’s brows.
‘Those unfortunate enough to be born there, perhaps,’ Maria said.
‘There’s quite an English colony, actually,’ Jessica stubbornly held her patience. ‘Artists – writers—’
‘Quite.’
Jessica ploughed doggedly on. ‘Robert is going to study music. He’s written to a teacher – quite a famous one – hoping he’ll take him.’
‘May I ask to what purpose?’
‘He wants to be a composer.’
There was a long, pained silence.
‘A – composer,’ Maria said at last, as if she had only that moment come across the word and could not begin to imagine what it meant.
‘Yes.’
‘I see.’
‘I don’t think you do. Mama – please – it really isn’t such an outrageous idea. We both know that sooner or later Robert will have to come home to take over Old Hall and the farm. We’re both ready for that. But it’ll be ages yet – and in the meantime why shouldn’t he do the thing he most wants in the world? I have my portion that will come to me when I marry, and Robert has a little money from his grandmother. We can manage perfectly well for a couple of years. Mama, you surely must know how he feels about his music? It’s his life. He can’t sing any more, and he’s honest enough to admit that his talent for the piano isn’t strong enough for him to perform publicly. But for the past year or so he’s been writing music – his tutor at Oxford said it was good—’
‘I’m sure he was an expert. Wasn’t Robert studying English Literature?’ Maria’s voice was acid.
Jessica ignored the sarcasm. ‘He deserves the chance. If we go to Florence, he’ll have the chance to study – to discover if he really can compose—’
‘And if he can’t?’
Jessica’s small mouth set. ‘I’m sure he can.’
Her mother sighed.
‘All right! If he can’t, then he can’t – but at least he’ll have tried. We’re young and we have a little money. Why shouldn’t we live in Florence for a while?’
‘Yellow fever?’ her mother suggested, tartly. ‘Typhoid? And supposing you have a child? What then?’
Jessica felt painful colour rising. She ducked her head. ‘It’s no good, Mama, we’ve made up our minds. We’re going to Florence. For a couple of years at least.’ Through the window she saw a rider, bright bare head windblown, galloping across the park towards the house. She turned her eyes from the sight of her brother. ‘We want to get away,’ she said, softly, but with determination like steel beneath the quiet.
With a whispering rustle of silk her mother rose. ‘Well, you’ll do as you wish, I daresay. Though I must say I find it extraordinary that you should choose voluntarily to live – for however short a time – amongst heathen Papists who will no doubt knife you in the back as soon as look at you – however—’ she stopped her daughter’s half-formed protest with a lifted hand, ‘if that’s your wish then far be it from me to stand in your way. After the wedding you will be Robert’s responsibility. I—’ she paused, and her face softened. ‘I shall have new responsibilities of my own.’
Jessica lifted her head, interested, and pleased to change the subject. Something in her mother’s face told her the answer to her question before it was asked. ‘The marriage is proved? Edward was married?’
Maria folded her hands. Her face was composed, but her eyes glowed. ‘So say the parish registers of St Margaret’s in Cambridge. So says the priest who married them. Sir Charles is there now – but yes, I believe it. Edward married Anne Stewart when he discovered that she was carrying his child. Patrick is legitimate.’
Bereft of words Jessica let out a small, unladylike whistling breath at the implications of that. ‘So – Patrick is Edward’s heir?’
‘I believe so.’
‘And – Giles?’
‘We have to leave that to Sir Charles,’ Maria’s voice was collected, her eyes suddenly as hard as the jewels with which they had so often been compared. ‘The situation is complicated, certainly. We’ll see. Now, my dear, we have arrangements to make – there must be a formal announcement, of course – perhaps a small entertainment for our close friends? I do somehow assume that you don’t want a great fuss made—?’
The change of subject was determined; with grace, though consumed with curiosity Jessica accepted it and dutifully turned to a discussion of her betrothal party.
* * *
‘But – what will happen, do you think?’ she asked Robert later that afternoon as they rode at Robert’s demure pace across the park. ‘If Patrick is legitimate, and Edward’s heir, then surely it means that New Hall is his?’ The late autumn afternoon was crisp with a hint of winter despite the sunshine that gleamed fitfully through the branches firing the leaves that remained on the trees to gold.
Robert shrugged. ‘I really don’t know.’
‘And what will happen if Giles – and Clara! – fight it?’
‘God only knows. The legal battles could last for years. Litigation like that has been known to break families of greater fortune than yours. If it goes to Chancery it could be years before a decision is given—’
‘And the costs could be crippling,’ Jessica put in soberly. They had both heard of such things. ‘Oh, Lord, Robert, I do wish we didn’t have to wait until spring to leave. There’s going to be the most awful trouble. I know it.’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised.’
‘Six months,’ she said. ‘Six months, and we can marry and go. France – Switzerland – Austria. And then – Italy!’ Her small face was suddenly lit with brilliant excitement. ‘Just imagine it, Robert! We’re going to live in Florence! We can do as we please! No one to say Jessica this, and Robert that, and Jessica the other! Oh, it’s the biggest and best adventure we’ve ever had!’
He reined in his placid horse and looked at her, smiling. Jessica’s mount danced beside him, as ardent and lit with life as its young mistress. ‘You haven’t asked me what my parents said.’
Jessica giggled infectiously, like a child. ‘Oh, Lord! I quite forgot! Were they horrified?’
He shook his head. ‘They were delighted. They said that you were probably the best thing that ever happened to me.’
‘Bless them!’ she said, delighted.
‘I think they’re probably right.’
Startled and gratified she opened her mouth, could not think of a single appropriate word to say and shut it again, blushing. He reached a hand and she took it, leaning easily with the movement of the horse. ‘It’s all going to be all right,’ she said, ‘I know it is. You’re going to be the most famous composer in the world. And we’re going to live in Florence. We’re going to live happily ever after, you’ll see.’
And in that golden November afternoon with the fire-colours of a Suffolk autumn in the trees and the bracken, she believed it. She was eighteen. She was marrying Robert, her dear Robert, always her true friend. She would be free of New Hall, and its malevolent antagonisms. Nothing could go wrong now.
Smiling they rode on hand in hand through the woodland.
* * *
Clara and Giles quarrelled constantly; never publicly, but with a quiet and vindictive force that seemed to reach right through the house and poison the very air. In company they were frigidly correct with one another; only God and they knew what went on in the privacy of their rooms. Jessica shuddered to think.
On Sir Charles’ return from Cambridge a family conference was called in the library. The solicitor was a fleshy man in late middle age, pink jowled and small-eyed, with his hair curled and clubbed back in the outdated style of his famous barrister father. He stood before the fire, hands behind his back, sober-faced and portentious with all eyes focused upon him. Giles and Clara sat side by side on a sofa, not touching, Clara’s full skirt drawn tellingly away from contact with her husband’s long legs. It was as if neither could bear to touch ea
ch other. Giles was very pale and, Jessica would have sworn, stone sober for the first time in days. Clara sat like a ramrod, her head lifted, her eyes sharply intent upon the lawyer’s face, her mouth a straight, bleakly determined line. Maria sat in a leather armchair, apparently poised and relaxed, her hands calm upon her lap. Yet there was an air of tension about her and the blue eyes were veiled and completely expressionless. Jessica sat on a stool near her mother. Caroline – her figure uncomfortably bulky in advanced pregnancy, her pretty face petulant as ever – sat beside her husband, who had been dragged very reluctantly from the prospect of a good day’s hunting, on the sofa opposite Giles and Clara. Caroline looked bored and Bunty – as always, Jessica thought – slightly blank. He was plainly out of his depth before a word had been spoken. Patrick was not there and, surprisingly, neither was his grandmother Stewart, who had been installed in comfort on Maria’s orders in one of the estate cottages. Jessica wondered if she were too ill to attend. Her condition had been growing steadily and obviously worse over the past few days.
Sir Charles cleared his throat. ‘There is no need, I think, to go into the background of this meeting—?’
‘None at all, Charles.’ Maria spoke crisply, ‘We all know why we’re here.’ So just get on with it, said the small, impatient lift in her voice. Jessica smothered a smile.
‘Er – quite—’ The man was for a moment thrown from his stride, but soon regained it. ‘I stand before you to offer you my considered opinion and, if you should ask it, my advice upon the quite extraordinary circumstances that appear to have arisen here—’ Sir Charles was every inch upon his dignity.
Clara made a slight, irritated movement of her head.
The big man rocked on the balls of his feet, hands still clasped behind his back, eyes on the high, ornately plastered ceiling. ‘As you all know, at Mrs Hawthorne’s request I made a visit to Cambridge, to the parish of St Margaret’s, for the purpose of enquiry into the validity of a marriage claimed to have taken place nine years ago between Edward Hawthorne, deceased son of this house, and Anne Stewart, daughter of Joseph and Isabel Stewart, and the consequent legitimacy of the only fruit of that union, the child known as Patrick Michael Hawthorne—’
Clara shifted again, and for once Jessica was in sympathy with her. Despite her own efforts and the importance of the occasion she found it almost impossible to concentrate on the dry, expressionless voice. It was easy to see why Sir Charles had not found it possible to follow in his illustrious father’s footsteps. Jessica watched Clara for a moment, wondering what was going on in her mind. Then her eyes moved to Giles. He was leaning forward, his face intent. Here was one member of the group whose attention had not wandered one jot. Her mother too was watching Sir Charles. She had moved forward a little in her chair and the white hands showed a small, regular pulse of movement, as if by some independent will of their own they refused to be still.
‘—and on this initial evidence I am forced to the conclusion that there is every likelihood that the claim could be proven. The parish record is quite clear. The priest, though old now, and very frail, actually identified the miniature of Edward that I showed him. And – perhaps most telling of all—’ Sir Charles had all their attention now, and he knew it. He paused for dramatic effect, rocking on his heels again, ‘I have discovered a witness.’ He paused again. Clara drew a sharp breath, and was still. Maria moved a little in her chair. In fact a small frisson of movement seemed to ripple around the room. Sir Charles continued soberly, satisfied with the sensation his words had caused, ‘A young man who actually attended the wedding and is ready if necessary to swear so. A fellow student of Edward’s who thought the whole thing, so he tells me, a great jape.’ He eyed his audience one by one. ‘A young man of title,’ he added, as if this fact were enough to prove the case on its merits alone.
‘So – are you saying—’ for all her efforts Maria’s voice shook a little, ‘—are you saying that you believe that Edward was married? That Patrick is his legitimate son?’
‘I’m saying,’ the man was predictably ponderous, ‘that in my opinion there is good ground for believing so, yes.’
Clara shook her head. ‘No!’ The word snapped from her almost reflexively. Sir Charles did not look at her.
Giles stood. Maria’s fierce eyes lifted to him. The room seemed to Jessica suddenly to be invested with a nerve-stretching tension. The lawyer faced Giles frankly. ‘My opinion of course has no force in law. You may fight it.’
‘Sir Charles—’ Maria began, but courteously and firmly he held up a hand to stop her. In the way of his kind he would say what must be said and nothing would stop him.
‘Anyone with an interest in the case may challenge both the marriage and the child’s legitimacy in the courts. However—’ another pause ‘—I have to warn you that in my opinion that is a course only to be taken after much advice, and a very great deal of consideration and thought. Once the case goes to Chancery—’ he shook his head, ‘the costs can be inestimable, and as for the time before a decision might be reached—’ He spread pudgy hands expressively.
‘We won’t fight it,’ Giles said, very clearly.
Sir Charles was already continuing. ‘I would suggest that anyone who decides to contest should perhaps consult—’ he stopped. ‘I beg your pardon?’
Every eye in the room was on Giles.
Maria stood to face her son. He looked at her steadily. ‘We won’t fight it,’ he said again.
Jessica saw the slight movement of her mother’s shoulders, the convulsive clenching of her fists before they relaxed by her side. ‘You mean that?’
‘I do.’
Clara was looking from one to the other as if she could not believe her ears. ‘Giles!’ she said, sharply.
Giles looked down at her. ‘We’re not contesting it,’ he said, voice and eyes like ice, ‘and that’s an end. This is Edward’s son. New Hall is his.’
‘Are you mad? Or drunk?’
‘Neither.’
‘You’ll throw away our home – our livelihood – our children’s future—?’
‘Oh, come now, Clara—’ Maria was sweetly conciliatory, ‘you know very well that no one would see you flung from the door penniless, for heaven’s sake! Your children – when they come—’ her smile was barbed ‘—will be quite safe, I promise you. Giles will be needed to run the estate. Patrick’s a child, after all, and I’m an old woman—’ neither her tone of voice nor her bearing gave any credence to that. ‘He’ll need a man to guide him.’
Giles turned from her. ‘I said nothing of that.’
Inexorably pleasant, Maria continued. ‘I thought perhaps Tollbridge Farm might suit you both very well? For I do assume you’d rather have a home of your own? It’s a nice old house, and the land is good. The estate would of course bear the cost of any improvements you might care to make before you move in—?’ She had thought about it. Planned it to the last detail. Her triumph was made more complete by her good-mannered determination not to show it. Clara glared at her.
Giles said nothing. His face was bitter.
Clara stood, facing him, her head flung back to look him in the face, her hands clenched to fists at her sides. ‘Fool!’ she said, very quietly. ‘You fool, Giles Hawthorne!’
He blinked, and was still. Clara’s eyes were dark pools of contempt. She stared at her husband for a moment longer. Then, with surprising dignity, she turned and left the room.
‘Well,’ Maria said, quietly and with finality in her voice, ‘that would seem to be that, wouldn’t it?’ She faced her son, honestly. ‘Thank you, Giles. This is more than I dared hope. I know it isn’t easy for you.’
Giles’ already pale face whitened further. The handsome bones stood out like blades against the fine skin. A muscle in his jaw throbbed. He said nothing.
His mother laid a hand upon his arm. ‘And – you will help us? You’ll stay and manage the estate? You’re so very good at it – I know how you love it—’
He je
rked his arm from her touch as if it had burned him. ‘I – don’t know.’
‘Please?’
His mouth tightened a little. ‘I’ll think about it,’ he said, stiffly.
Maria nodded, satisfied with that. She turned to Sir Charles, ‘You’ll take care of the legal complications for us? You’ll continue the enquiries – and there must be—’ she shrugged, airily and prettily, ‘documents and deeds and things?’
He nodded. ‘Of course.’ His small eyes flickered warily to Giles’ taut face, ‘And – if I might suggest—?’
‘Yes?’
‘An agreement. A legal agreement. That at no time in the future will anyone contest the boy’s claim—?’
‘Oh, for Christ’s Sweet Sake!’ Giles burst out, ‘I’ve said it, haven’t I? I’ve said it! What more do you want?’
‘Giles—’ His mother stepped towards him.
He stared at her, a bright and bitter glint in his brilliant eyes. ‘Oh, go to hell!’ he said, quietly and savagely. ‘The lot of you! Go to hell!’
Maria froze. He strode past her and through the door, slamming it behind him to shake the house to its foundations.
Maria stood absolutely still for the space of perhaps a dozen heartbeats.
‘Well!’ It was the first word that Caroline had spoken, and she spoke it with some force, ‘Of all the ill-mannered – beastly – ways to act! Really! I sometimes wonder what on earth this family is coming to!’
Maria bowed her head and passed a hand wearily across her brow.
‘Not on,’ Bunty agreed, solemnly. ‘Absolutely not on.’
Maria eyed them both in mild despair, then turned to Jessica. ‘Ring for John, would you Jessica?’ she said with remarkable calm. ‘I think we should tell Cook there’ll be just the five of us for luncheon—’
* * *
Apart from Clara, Jessica was perhaps the only person in the house who did not, grudgingly or otherwise, admire Giles for the difficult and apparently unselfish decision he had taken. Maria was gentle with him; she had her way, she could be and was generous. Only Jessica knew what lay behind her brother’s brusque rejection of his mother’s advances. The same thing that had lain behind his decision not to contest Patrick’s claims as Edward’s son. The same thing that lay between herself and her brother like a barrier of steel, though he did not know it.
The Hawthorne Heritage Page 23
