* * *
The following evening, watching the tall young man with the ready smile and engaging, frequent laughter, Jessica remembered her mother’s words and dismissed her first slightly worrying impression that she had been talking to convince herself. Patrick even had Robert relaxed and laughing as he told an obviously well-censored but hilarious story involving a Harrow inn-keeper’s pretty daughter and a student he swore with innocent face and twinkling eyes was not himself.
‘If it wasn’t you,’ Robert chuckled, ‘you seem to know an awful lot about the escape route!’
Patrick inclined the red-gold head that was so vividly reminiscent of Edward’s and held his hand to his heart. ‘My best friend,’ he said, ‘I swear it!’
He was one of those rare people, Jessica realized as the evening progressed, who with unthinking ease and no particular intention could capture and hold the attention of those about him without appearing overbearing or causing resentment. His personality was warm, his laughter easy. He had an attractive voice and a handsome face. He had the disarming knack of listening with lively attention to the opinions of others, whilst always, with humour, being ready to advance his own. He had wit, and he had charm. Smiling to herself she shuddered to think of the number of feminine hearts he would flutter. How many, indeed, he already had—
‘What are you smiling at, darling Jessica?’ He had crept up on her and pounced, clicking his fingers and making her jump. His real delight at seeing her again when they had arrived this evening had warmed her heart. She smiled at him.
‘I was thinking how very far removed you are from that little tinker who climbed out onto the church roof at our wedding!’
He laughed aloud. ‘Oh – not so very far!’ He pulled a funny, self-deprecating face, ‘I can still do some pretty silly things to impress a pretty girl!’
‘I’m sure you can.’
‘As a matter of fact—’ his voice was rueful, and for a moment his smile slipped a little, ‘I can still do some pretty silly things altogether.’
She laughed a little. ‘Oh? That sounds a little dire?’
He shook his head swiftly. ‘Oh no – not really – it’s just—’
‘Yes?’ She had stopped laughing.
He grinned. ‘Nothing. Well – nothing that won’t wait for another day.’ He pulled up a chair. ‘May I ride over to Old Hall tomorrow? I want to hear all about your wicked adventures in Florence.’ He wagged a long finger under her nose. ‘Everyone tells me I get my wild ways from my father – but it seems to me that my old Aunt Jessica has her share!’
She assumed a look of outrage. ‘I really can’t imagine what you mean, young man!’
He chuckled. ‘Then you’ve got less imagination than I give you credit for!’
‘Jessica? Patrick?’ Imperiously Maria tapped upon the floor with her stick. ‘What are you doing over there giggling in the corner like a couple of silly schoolgirls? Patrick, ring for tea if you please – a poor old woman could die of thirst with such neglect!’
* * *
Patrick was true to his word and rode, in the rain, to Old Hall next day where he charmed the impressionable Gabriella into ecstasies of bad behaviour, brought a smile to Robert’s face, cajoled a handful of buttery biscuits from Mrs Williams, produced flutters in the inexperienced Miss Barton’s heart that took a full day to calm and finally ran Jessica to earth in the library where she was all but hidden behind a mountain of books stretched upon a vast desk.
‘S’truth!’ he whistled, laughing. ‘I’ve found a little bookworm, no less!’
She came out from behind the desk, stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. ‘Less of the “little”, please,’ she said, severely.
The afternoon was dark and despite the early hour Jessica had lit a single lamp, economy dictating that to be sufficient. The light glinted in his hair and gleamed in the vivid blue of his eyes. ‘I just made Robert laugh,’ he announced, solemnly. ‘And for that I deserve a drink.’
She laughed, a little ruefully, ‘It certainly isn’t easy these days, I have to admit. What would you like? Tea? It’s a little cool for lemonade—’
He leaned to her ear, blowing gently to stir the tendrils of her hair. ‘Wine,’ he whispered, conspiratorially, ‘A – very – large – glass!’ He exaggerated the words.
She hesitated, then capitulated. She reached for the bell pull, laughing, ‘I see you’re picking up all the bad habits at good old Harrow?’
He looked at her strangely for a moment, then without answering he threw himself with graceful force into a battered sofa, lifting his booted feet onto the scuffed arm. ‘Oh, I do like this place! When Sotheby’s make your fortune, you won’t change it, will you?’
She tutted. ‘Sotheby’s aren’t going to make our fortune, Patrick! They’re going to help us to make ends meet. If we’re lucky. Ah, Mary—’ the door had opened and a small maid entered, smoothing her black skirt with small hands, eyelashes fluttering at Patrick, ‘—a glass of wine, if you please, for Mr Patrick.’
‘A large one.’ Patrick smiled, beguilingly, and the girl blushed to the roots of her hair.
As the maid left Jessica turned and surveyed the tall young man who sprawled on her sofa. ‘I used to prefer Old Hall to New Hall,’ she volunteered.
He did not show surprise. ‘Of course you did. You always were a lady of very great sense. Not,’ he added in slightly guilty haste, ’that I’m saying that Grandmama isn’t the most wonderful person in the world. Of course she is. She’s just – a little difficult to live with sometimes, that’s all. She has such very great expectations of a fellow—’ He fell to pensive silence for a moment, then lifted his head, grinning and changing the mood. ‘Is that why you married Robert?’ he asked, slyly.
Taken aback by the easy impertinence of the question she did not reply for a moment. Then she laughed. ‘You mean because of Mother’s expectations, or because I preferred Old Hall?’
‘Both. Either.’
She looked at him for a long moment, half-smiling.
He shrugged. ‘Sorry. It isn’t my business, is it?’
She shook her head, attempting severity, and failing, as she suspected most people did when faced with the lad’s winning ways. He swung his feet to the floor and sat up as the maid returned with a large glass of wine on a tray. Jessica noticed with well-concealed amusement that her hair was tidier and her cap perched at a more becoming angle than it had been a few moments before. Patrick smiled at her with almost unconscious charm as she set the tray carefully beside him and bobbed a graceful and somehow impudent curtsey. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome, Sir.’ She walked with small, quick steps to the door, her wide skirt swaying to the movement of her neat hips. Patrick watched her go appreciatively. As she turned to shut the door he caught her eye and winked, bringing a rosy blush of colour to her face. She shut the door with a click.
Patrick leaned back again, glass in hand, and resumed the conversation, undaunted by Jessica’s earlier attempt to repress him. ‘He’s a duller bird than I remember him. He was always quiet. Now – well he seems downright miserable.’
‘He misses Florence.’
‘So do you, I daresay. But I’m pretty sure you don’t make the rest of the world suffer for it.’ He glanced at her astutely and as, colouring, she opened her mouth to speak made an easy gesture of apology and apeasement. ‘All right. All right. I’m sorry. I’ll change the subject.’ He tilted his head and to Jessica’s surprise she saw the wine disappear at a gulp. He emerged grinning, ‘But only if you send for the rest of the bottle. And have one with me.’
She eyed the empty glass. ‘Is that what they teach you at Harrow?’
He shrugged, avoiding her eyes. ‘Amongst other things.’
He walked to the window and stood looking out into the dark afternoon as Jessica rang once more for the maid. This time, for all her swinging hips and artfully perched cap he took no notice of her at all. As she left, having deposited the bottle and anothe
r glass upon the table she glanced at his back and cleared her throat.
‘Thank you, Mary,’ Jessica said.
Clearly piqued the girl put her small nose in the air and stalked from the room like an offended duchess.
Jessica poured the wine and joined him at the window. The drizzle had given way to driving rain that hit the glass like flung gravel. The room was very dark, but it was not the physical gloom brought by the low, rain-hung clouds that caused the sombre look she surprised on Patrick’s face as she glanced at him. Then he turned, smiling again as he took the wine, and she wondered if she had imagined that look of strain. He toasted her. ‘Angel of mercy! Grandmama doesn’t approve of strong drink before five o’clock.’
‘I’m not sure I do myself.’ She sipped her wine, watching him as he took a thirsty gulp then held up the glass to the rain-washed window and studied the play of light in the blood-red depths. ‘I wondered—’ he said, very casually, not looking at her, ‘—if you might – well, do me a favour. Help me out a bit—?’
‘Of course. If I can,’ she said, readily.
‘It’s – a little difficult.’ He sipped his wine, then went back to his absorbed contemplation of it.
She waited.
‘I’m a little – short of the ready. You know? Strapped for funds, as you might say.’ He glanced at her, a swift, sideways look, and then turned back to the window.
She laughed. ‘You aren’t alone.’
‘No. This is – well, serious. I need the loan of a few guineas.’
‘We-ell.’ She was doubtful, but wanted to help him, knowing how hard it would be for him to go to Maria, ‘We’re not exactly rolling in money ourselves, but I’m sure I can manage a little. A few guineas, you say? Exactly how few?’
He did not respond to her lightness of tone. He hesitated for a moment. ‘Five hundred.’
The silence rang with shock.
‘Five hundred!’ She stared at him. ‘Patrick – five hundred guineas is a small fortune! What in the world can you possibly want that much for?’
‘Need,’ he said, grimly, ‘not want.’ He turned and walked to the sofa, sat down, his shoulders slumped, the wine glass hanging in his lax fingers.
‘Actually, Jessica, it’s more than a bit desperate. I owe it to a chap – a nasty piece of work – he’ll break my head if I don’t get it for him.’
‘But – Patrick! – what have you been doing to get into such debt? You have an allowance, don’t you?’
He made a small, impatient gesture but said nothing.
‘Patrick!’
He lifted his bright head. His eyes gleamed savagely blue in the light. Then he turned away, and the fierce, frightened expression was gone. ‘All the chaps at school have a flutter. It’s nothing unusual.’
‘A flutter? You mean – gambling?’
He shrugged.
‘Patrick? Gambling? Five hundred guineas?’
‘I had a run of bad luck, that’s all.’ His voice was defiant. ‘I’d have made it all back – I’ve done it before. It went wrong this time, that’s all. Then this bounder started to dun me for the money. The others are willing to wait, I don’t see why he—’ He stopped.
There was a long silence. ‘What others?’ Jessica’s voice was tight.
He shook his head.
‘Patrick – what others?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake – what does it matter? It’s this one that’s after me – Jessie – please – I have to get hold of this money—!’
‘Patrick – my dear – we don’t have five hundred guineas!’
He gestured at the pile of books, eagerly. ‘You’ll make it though, won’t you ?’
‘Not for months yet – and in any case—’ The words died. She made a small, helplessly worried gesture.
‘Oh, well—’ Falsely bright he tossed back the wine and stood up, putting the glass on the table with a hand that was not quite steady. Beyond the window the full-leafed trees bent in a sudden storm-wind. ‘I’ll just have to go elsewhere. Trouble is these loan chappies strap a fellow for interest rather, and I hoped I could get away without, that’s all. Don’t worry. I’ll get it.’ He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, ‘You – wouldn’t mention this to anyone, would you? I don’t want to – worry – grandmama—’
She was looking at him soberly. ‘No. I don’t think you should. And of course I’ll say nothing. But, Patrick—’
He shook his head and held up his hand, a ghost of the old smile flickering on his young face. ‘Don’t “but”, Jessica darling. I couldn’t stand it. Sorry I brought the matter up. I’d better go now, or I’ll be late for supper. I’ll see you soon.’ He dropped a perfunctory kiss on her cheek and was gone.
She was still standing at the window, a worried frown on her face, her wine untouched in her hand, when he galloped through the curtain of rain at flat speed down the river path and disappeared from sight towards New Hall.
* * *
The sad if not altogether unexpected news of Theo’s death reached Jessica in September, in a letter from a Florentine lawyer written in July and telling her of a single bequest left specifically to her and forwarded under separate cover.
Jessica stared at the letter, the florid, stylish handwriting blurred by her tears.
‘What is it?’ Robert had come in from a walk by the river and unusually his eyes were bright and his pale face flushed with sunshine. Perversely, after the awful summer, the autumn was proving to be glorious – warm and balmy, the colours in the trees and hedgerows like the flames of a triumphal fire.
‘It’s Theo.’ She brushed a hand across her wet eyes. ‘He’s dead.’
They stood in silence for a moment, each separately lost in thought and sudden recollection. This time last year they had been in Florence, and like children they had believed that nothing need ever change—
Robert put an awkward hand on her arm. It was the first time he had touched her in months. She smiled a small, tearful smile and moved a little away from him. ‘I think – if you don’t mind – I’d like to go for a walk.’
‘Would you like me to come with you?’
She shook her head. ‘No. I’ll go alone.’
St Agatha’s was shadowed as always, but the usual chill was gone. The warmth of the autumn air had seeped through even these grey, defensive walls. There was a strange, faint smell of something evocative of incense, a heady, dream-provoking scent that must be the product of one of the herbs that grew in straggling profusion with the weeds of the churchyard. Jessica sat for a very long time, calmed by the silent peace of the place, small disjointed memories flickering in her mind like the dance of flame, whilst the helpless tears welled and coursed down her face almost unnoticed.
Theo, that first night she had met him: wicked, unscrupulous. And kind.
Despite her tears she almost smiled. How Theo would have hated that word!
Theo, discoursing – gnarled, discoloured hands gesturing impatiently, grotesque wig askew, his passion for the perfection of David or the form of the Pieta evident in every movement.
Theo causing trouble between a group of earnest young artists too self-absorbed to see his mischief – the small, triumphant wink he would send her once he had got them fighting.
Theo stumping awkwardly through the Boboli Gardens. Theo watching her with bright eyes as she fell in love with the Villa Francesca.
Danny.
Danny in the sunshine, the glorious, endless Italian sunshine, laughing, a glass of wine in his hand. A look that could melt the marrow in her bones sent across a busy room, or a crowded, happy alfresco table. Danny, loving her that first time in the via Condotta. Danny angry. Danny happy. Danny working. And above all Danny’s lovemaking, fierce and intense, that reduced her soul to willing slavery.
For months, stubbornly, she had fought the memories. For months she had endured the loneliness of living without him, and hardly once had she cried. But now her grief for Theo had released a flood of memories that would not
be denied or ignored.
St Agatha smiled, cool and enigmatic, a hand lifted in blessing.
Danny’s hands worked upon you, too. He is as much a part of you as he is of me.
For some reason the thought, absurd as it was, brought a fresh rise of tears. She bowed her face into her hands, sobbing. In the darkness behind her closed lids the memories rolled inexorably on.
Danny, so many years ago, here in this very building. ‘So. My little Mouse, in a trap at last.’ And then; ‘Don’t be afraid, little Mouse. I won’t hurt you.’
‘Jessica Hawthorne – little Mouse – I hereby declare a day of rest. I’ve got bread, and cheese. Let’s go and eat them by the river—’
Of such small decisions were tragedy made. She saw, though she fought against it, the look that had passed between Danny and Caroline that day, when her sister had appeared on that same riverbank. The look that had excluded her as surely as a barrier of steel.
And then his face, a mask of confused pain. ‘She’s expecting my child. We were to leave together. Tomorrow.’
She lifted her head, easing the painful tension in her neck.
Florence, and Theo again: ‘So – yer want ter fall in love, eh? More fool you, gel. More fool you!’
Then a note. ‘The library. A present from Theo.’
‘Oh, Theo,’ she said aloud, on a little sobbing catch of breath, ‘Devil you were! I feel sorry for Lucifer! He doesn’t stand a chance against you! You’ll be taking over in no time.’
Overwhelmed with sadness she laid her arms tiredly upon the pew in front and buried her face in them, sobbing bitterly. But this time the storm was brief. In a while she raised her aching head, brushing the tears from her hot face with her fingers.
The Hawthorne Heritage Page 43
