She tilted her head back and shut her eyes, the soft silence calming her. For perhaps an hour she sat in the lulling, strangely perfumed warmth, mourning Theo, longing for Danny, tempted almost beyond endurance to give up her fight to save Old Hall and to return to Florence and to Danny before it was too late. But when she stood, at last, the decision she had made was clear on her calm face. The sun was sinking. Duty called. The house that had survived for so long would not perish because Jessica Hawthorne mourned the loss of a lover.
The fresh air was very welcome. Her head was aching, her eyes heavy from weeping. It was as if the oppressive, scented air in the church had crept sluggishly into her veins, slowing her blood.
She walked to the gate and stood, a little dizzily, her hand to her head.
‘You all right?’
The voice startled her into a near-shriek. Calmly Charlie Best steadied her with a huge, calloused hand. ‘I’m sorry. Tha’ss daft of me. I didn’t mean to frighten you.’ His voice was very quiet.
‘I – didn’t know you were there. You startled me, that’s all.’ Slowly her head was clearing. She was suddenly acutely aware of her dishevelled and undignified appearance, her swollen, tearstained face.
‘I was passin’,’ he said. ‘I heard you—’ he hesitated, then continued, ‘I waited. Seemed somethin’ might be wrong. Seemed there might be somethin’ I could do?’
She shook her head, ‘Oh, Charlie, thank you. But – I’m all right. Truly. It’s just – I had some bad news. Someone I loved more than I knew has died. I just had to go somewhere and have a good cry.’
He nodded and she remembered that here was a man who knew about grief. ‘Best thing. You want me to walk back with you?’
She shook her head. ‘No. Thank you, but no. I can manage. And just at the moment I think I’d rather be on my own.’
He nodded again, unembarrassed, understanding. She wondered how long he had stood, patiently waiting for her, wondered too, suddenly and with a tiny spurt of amusement, when he had at last stopped calling her ‘Your Ladyship’ at every other word. ‘As long as you’re all right.’
‘Truly I am. I just need a walk, that’s all.’
He nodded, and with no other salute turned and left her, striding heavily and purposefully back along the path that followed the river. Like a shadow his small collie Bess had appeared at his heels, following him.
The dipping sun lit the water to fire where it glittered through the drifting willow-branches, yellow-gold now, but still in full leaf.
Jessica watched Charlie’s sturdy form disappear around the curve of the path and then set out slowly after him, a little comforted.
The world was not, after all, an entirely friendless place.
* * *
Theo’s bequest to Jessica arrived a couple of weeks later. Jessica had been to Home Farm to discuss with Charlie the possibility of putting more land to pasture the following year. Charlie had long since become used to discussing such things with her, rather than with Robert, the true master of the estate, for try as she might she could interest Robert in neither her plans for the house nor in the running of the lands that went with it. He left it all to her, shrugging if she asked his advice, agreeing almost off-handedly to anything she suggested as long as it required no effort from him. But at least lately it seemed to her that he had been a little more settled. He spoke less often and less desperately of returning to Florence, and spent more time outside the dilapidated walls of Old Hall. He had begun taking long, rambling, lonely walks at odd hours of the day, his only companion his battered volume of Byron’s poems which he would, Jessica presumed, pore over in solitude in some quiet corner of the estate, lost in a dream from which he did not want to awaken. But the walks brought no colour to his cheeks, and he was still distrait and very quiet. He rarely spoke and even more rarely listened to anything going on around him. He was like a man constantly in a reverie and at odd moments in her busy life she wondered a little worriedly what was going on in his mind and where this aimless dreaming might lead him.
She had spent an hour with Charlie and was riding back to Old Hall when she saw Gabriella riding towards her on her fat little pony, heels drumming at the animal’s rounded sides as she pushed him as close to a gallop as his dumpling proportions would allow. ‘Mama! Mama! There is a package! A package from Italy! And it has your name on it!’
Smiling, Jessica reined in. The child’s dark eyes were shining with excitement in her pointed, smooth-skinned face. Behind her stood the young groom who accompanied her wherever she rode, his long legs keeping easy pace with the pony’s short ones. He touched his cap to Jessica, smiling. ‘She would come to find you, Y’re Ladyship. That excited she was.’
Jessica leaned down to pat the pony’s shaggy head. ‘Well – we’d best go to see what the excitement is all about, hadn’t we?’
* * *
‘It’s pretty,’ Gabriella announced, judiciously, an hour or so later, studying the book her mother held, one of the two that the package had held. ‘Is it yours?’
‘Yes, it is. Theo gave it to me.’ Jessica looked at her daughter fondly. ‘Do you remember Theo?’
The child narrowed her eyes a little in thought, then nodded uncertainly. ‘I – think – so.’
‘He was a very good friend.’ Smiling with pleasure Jessica leafed through the beautifully decorated pages of the book. ‘Is Papa somewhere around? I think he might like to see these.’
Gabriella shrugged. ‘He was. He went out I think. Perhaps he came to find you, as I did? Mama—’ She turned a bright, momentarily serious face to her mother. ‘—Miss Barton says that when I grow up I must marry a lord and live in his castle. Is that true?’
Jessica turned from the drawing. Gabriella’s dark eyes, so heartbreakingly like Danny’s, were fixed solemnly upon hers. She laughed affectionately, and gathered her daughter to her, hugging her until the child giggled breathlessly. ‘Only if you want to, my precious. You may marry a prince, or a beggar, live in a palace or a gypsy’s tent. Just as long as you’re happy.’
‘May I tell Miss Barton that?’
‘You may.’
The little girl smiled and tucked a confident hand into her mother’s. ‘And when I get married, may I stay here? I want to live here for ever and ever.’
Jessica dropped a quick kiss onto the small, tender fingertips. ‘Nothing would make me happier, my darling. Nothing at all.’
It was more than two hours later, with Gabriella abed and supper almost ready, that Jessica realized that Robert still had not returned to the house. To her surprise no one remembered his going nor knew where he might be. Mrs Williams agreed with Gabriella that he had been on hand when the package from Italy had been delivered, and suggested the same thing that the child had. ‘Perhaps he went off to look for you, Miss Jess?’
Jessica shook her head, puzzled. ‘I can’t really see why he’d do that. I’m sure I told him I was going down to the farm. If he had gone that way I’d have passed him on the way back—’ The first faint stirrings of unease drew her brows together in a frown. The path to Home Farm followed the river at its deepest almost all the way. ‘Mrs Williams – wait supper awhile, would you? I’ll ride back to the farm and see if he’s there. Perhaps he’s got talking to Charlie and forgotten the time?’
‘You want some help, Miss Jess? Shall I call young Sam?’
‘Oh no. There’s no need. I shan’t be long. Just ask Sam to saddle Bay Dancer for me, would you?’
She rode fast to the farm, sure now that that was where Robert would be. The sun was dipping below the horizon, sending spears of scarlet and gold into the clear sky as she rode up the track. Charlie came to the door, shading his eyes. She did not dismount. ‘Charlie – have you seen my husband? I think he may have come here looking for me?’
Charlie shook his head. ‘He hasn’t been here.’
‘You’re sure?’
Charlie nodded. ‘Somethin’ wrong?’
‘No.’ She spoke the
word a shade too quickly. ‘No, I’m sure not. It’s just unusual for him to be gone so long.’
‘You want me to come help look for him?’
She laughed a little. ‘Oh no, Charlie! He’d be furious if he found me sending out search parties!’ Bay Dancer backed restively away from the door, eager to be gone. ‘I’ll go back to the house. He’s sure to have come home by now.’
She stopped once or twice on the way back along the river path, calling above the sound of the moving waters. ‘Robert? Ro-bert!’ Almost certainly, she thought, ignoring the chill that the sight of the dark river brought, he had found some sheltered spot and become so absorbed in Lord Byron’s heroic poesy that he had forgotten the time. Perhaps he had even fallen asleep. With the sun gone the evening was cooling very quickly. He’d soon be home.
Mrs Williams was waiting at the gate, watching for her, her own eyes worried. No, Sir Robert had not returned, and there had been no word. No one knew where he was.
Jessica did not dismount. One more idea had come to her. ‘Perhaps he’s called in at New Hall, and has stayed to supper with Patrick and Mother?’
‘The master has been seeing a lot of Mr Patrick lately,’ Mrs Williams conceded, ‘so yes, tha’ss very likely what he’s done.’
Jessica was astonished. So involved in Old Hall’s affairs had she been lately that the information that Patrick and Robert had been meeting was a complete surprise. She felt a twinge of guilt that she should neglect Robert so that he felt it necessary to seek the company of a seventeen-year-old, however charming. ‘I’ll ride over and see if he’s there,’ she said on impulse. ‘Don’t worry about supper, Mrs Williams – feed the rest of the household – I’ll probably eat at New Hall.’
‘Very well, Miss Jess.’
Jessica turned Bay Dancer along the path that led to the lake. The sun had gone now, and the air was chill, though the last colours of a brilliant sunset still washed the sky, tingeing the underbellies of a few clouds that hung like painted patches upon the darkening sky. The sound of the horse’s hooves were muffled by a fresh, deep carpet of leaves that gave off the sharp, sweet smell of autumn as they were disturbed. A bird twittered sleepily and was still. About the tower of St Agatha’s bats swooped, flickering like swift shadows in the still half-dark. Surprised, she reined the horse to a quiet halt. The door of the church stood a little open, and through it she had thought she detected the faintest rosy gleam of light. She frowned and narrowed her eyes. She must be mistaken. But no, as Dancer moved a little, restively, she saw it again – a narrow slither of lamplight, bright in the growing darkness.
Silently she slid from the saddle and tethered the horse to a tree. Then quietly she moved up the overgrown path to the church porch. As she neared the open door she stopped, sniffing the air. A heavy, unpleasantly sweet smell drifted to her nostrils and caught at her throat. She remembered the faint, strange, incense-like scent she had smelled in the church the last time she had come here. This was the same, but stronger, sickly and cloying, strong enough almost to taste.
It was becoming rapidly darker, and as it did so the gleam of light from beyond the door brightened.
Very quietly she stepped to the door and pushed it.
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness of the interior, a darkness that seemed strangely clouded despite the rosy halo of the lamp that stood upon a small table in the centre of the church. The smell enveloped her, sweet and nauseating. She put a hand to cover her nose and mouth. Smoke stung her eyes. There was a faint rustle of movement. A wisp of smoke spiralled and hung in the air like an evil genie escaping from a bottle. Jessica stood rooted to the spot.
Patrick reclined amongst cushions on a pew, his long legs crossed, his bright head, propped upon one hand, glinting in the fitful light. The heavy perfume of the drugging smoke that lifted from the pipe he held drifted eerily in the space above him. He was smiling, the long fair lashes veiling his eyes. Robert sat upon the floor beside him, his back against the end of the pew, his head back, his eyes closed, a look of calm ecstasy upon his narrow, dark face. As Jessica watched he opened his eyes, inclined his head a little and drew deeply upon the pipe he held, the twin of the one that Patrick was smoking. Upon the table with the lamp was a saucepan, something that looked like a sieve and a spoon, beside which, incongruously, lay a lemon cut in half. The smoke from the pipes gathered in the dark air like an evil cloud, carrying with it its sweet, drugging perfume.
Jessica had begun to tremble, and her stomach roiled. She felt as if she were suffocating, the poisoned air catching her throat and choking her lungs. She stepped back. The door creaked. Robert turned his head, looking directly towards the sound. For a moment their eyes met: but she knew with a stirring of horror that lifted the small hairs upon her neck that he did not see her. He did not see anything. He smiled, gently.
She fled. Brambles clawed at her riding-skirt, branches whipped painfully at her skin. Bay Dancer turned his head to her as she stumbled to him. Shivering violently she put her arms about the horse’s strong, warm neck and stood for a moment, leaning against the animal, drawing comfort from the simple, uncorrupted strength of the beast. Her eyes were stinging, the opium-smell hung about her hair and her clothes, cloyed her throat. It was full dark now. Somewhere close an owl hunted, crying in the darkness, its great wings brushing the air like the pinions of death. A small, terrified animal shrieked and was silent. With an enormous effort Jessica swung herself into the saddle and turned the horse’s head for home.
* * *
Robert returned to Old Hall minutes after the clocks of the house had chimed midnight. Jessica sat where she had remained almost unmoving since she had returned, in a deep armchair next to the oriel window of the Old Drawing Room, a single lamp burning at her elbow. She saw the lantern he carried, watched it as it approached, bobbing like a will o’ the wisp along the river path, across the drawbridge and over the courtyard. She saw it stop for a moment as Robert caught sight of the lamp burning in the window, and then come on more slowly to the door below.
She heard the opening of the door, and its closing. Heard the hesitancy of his footsteps as he mounted the stairs. Then he stood, lantern still in hand, at the door. As he stepped into the room a faint, sickly-sweet smell drifted in with him.
Jessica did not move.
‘Jessica? You’re still up?’
She said nothing.
‘Is – something wrong?’ His voice was wary.
‘Yes, Robert. There’s something wrong.’
‘What’s happened?’ He came further into the room. She saw that the hand that held the lantern shook. With care he set the light upon a table and turned to her. ‘What’s the matter?’
She lifted her head. He blinked at the look in her eyes. His own were smudged with tiredness, the pupils unnaturally big.
‘I came to look for you tonight,’ she said.
He drew a long breath, loud in the silence. ‘And—’ he asked, carefully, ‘did you find me?’
‘Yes.’
‘In the church?’
‘Yes.’
‘I see.’
The silence that fell was like a door closing between them.
She shook her head, bitterly. ‘Robert, you fool! What do you think you’re doing? To yourself? To us?’
He threw his head back, hair flying from his forehead. His mouth was tight. ‘Be quiet, Jessica. You don’t understand.’
‘Understand?’ She almost laughed at that. ‘Oh, I understand! Better than you’ll ever know! You can’t face reality, so you drug yourself into stupidity to escape it!’
He spun on her, took a step forward that was clearly threatening. ‘That isn’t it! It isn’t! When I smoke the dreams come – and the dreams are music – music, Jessica! I compose like a master! I hear it – it releases me—’
She leapt to her feet, facing him, a tired, savage anger overwhelming her. ‘You’re mad! Opium has softened your brain!’
‘No! Opium is my salvat
ion!’ he glared back at her, breathing heavily. ‘With the dreams I can make music. With the dreams I shall write something truly great at last—!’
She shook her head, her temper dying as quickly as it had flared, a terrible sadness filling the vacuum it left in its going. His face was pallid and thin, the eyes huge and burning. The neatly handsome features that had been familiar to her since childhood were sharp-drawn and anguished. He looked a haunted man, and the chilling depths of fear and misery she saw in his eyes terrified her.
‘Robert – please! – can’t you see how wrong this is? Can’t you see the harm you’re doing to yourself? Your music has gone – you have to face it—’
‘No!’
‘You tried! And – you failed. Opium won’t change that—’
‘But it does! Jessie – it does!’ Eagerly he stepped to her. ‘I tell you that in the smoke-dreams I hear the music I could write—’
‘And do you write it?’ she asked, quietly.
He nibbled his lip.
‘Robert?’ she prompted, gently, ‘Do you write it?’
He turned from her. ‘Not yet. When I try it – slips away. But I will! I know I will!’
The depth of her pity for him brought unexpected tears. As she watched him they burned, blurring the lamplight. She rubbed the heels of her hands into her eyes. If she allowed herself to weep now she suspected that she would not stop for a very long time.
‘Don’t interfere, Jessica,’ his disembodied voice was quiet in the gloom. ‘Don’t try to stop me. I don’t know what I might do if you tried to stop me.’
She lifted her head, shocked. He stood very still, watching her, his white face all but expressionless.
‘Patrick is my friend,’ he said. ‘He showed me the way.’
‘The way to hell,’ she said, bitterly.
‘No. The way to paradise.’
She shook her head in wordless despair. The awful smell still clung to him, revolting her, like the sick-sweet smell of death.
The Hawthorne Heritage Page 44
