The Hawthorne Heritage

by The Hawthorne Heritage (retail) (epub)

  He came to her, seeing her misery, his voice suddenly gentle. ‘Jessica – many great people have used opium. Poets. Painters. Musicians. They make no secret of it. It is a benign influence. It’s nothing to be afraid of.’

  ‘And the dreams?’ she asked quietly. ‘Are they never to be feared?’

  She saw something flicker in his eyes, and she had her answer, for all that he would not speak.

  ‘The dreams are not always of music,’ she said softly, ‘are they?’

  He turned and walked to the window, stood looking at his reflection in the glass, broken and fractured by the lead lights and the flickering lamplight.

  ‘What of the horrors?’ Jessica asked. ‘How can you face them?’

  He shook his head. ‘Stop it.’

  ‘Stop what? Trying to make you see the truth? That in the end this will control you – drive you insane—?’

  ‘No!’ It was a muted cry of agony.

  She bowed her head for a moment, closing her eyes, suddenly entirely exhausted. ‘Sweet Jesus Christ. What are we going to do?’

  She heard a rustle of movement, smelled the drug-smoke smell as he paused by her side. ‘There’s absolutely nothing we can do.’ His voice was suddenly, astoundingly normal, apparently perfectly controlled. ‘It is gone too far. Jessica – you’re tired. You’ve got everything out of perspective. Wait till morning and you’ll see that things are not so terrible. We are a nation of opium-eaters. The lord in his castle, the poor man by his hearth. Why, even your mother takes laudanum—’

  She dropped her hands to her side. ‘Don’t be stupid! How can you compare it? Mother takes laudanum to ease her pain—’ she stopped.

  He smiled, bleakly. ‘Exactly. I could not have put it better myself.’ He moved to her as if he might have been going to kiss her cheek. She drew back from him. He shrugged a little. ‘Goodnight, Jessica.’

  When he had gone she collapsed into the chair like a stringless puppet abandoned by its master. She sat for a long time, staring sightlessly at the smoking flame of the lamp.

  Before she slept, huddled into the chair, one thought came, just one constructive thought. ‘Patrick is my friend,’ Robert had said. ‘He showed me the way—’

  Patrick.

  Tomorrow she would talk to Patrick. God help the boy.

  * * *

  She rode to New Hall the following morning. She had not seen Robert – he had not come down to breakfast and she had not sought him out to enquire why. She rode across the New Hall parkland fighting to control the anger that rose each time she thought of the events of the previous evening, trying to marshal reasoned argument, to bury deep the too-bitter words that seethed in her tired brain. Her neck was stiff from an awkward night’s sleep, and her eyes felt as if the dust of the desert had blown into them. But still she kept a brake upon the impulse to blame Patrick for what was happening to Robert. She recognized that the reasons for Patrick’s undoubted wildness were more than the simple and the obvious. She remembered the frightened child, his mother newly dead, his grandmother dying, thrown into a hostile environment like a small martyr into a den of lions. She remembered those early letters from Harrow while she had been in Florence with Danny, too busy then to read between the lines. More than once a shadow of doubt had crossed her mind about a child from a background so chequered holding his own in a bastion of privilege and of petty power. She thought of the boy’s facile charm, his easy ways, his readiness to indulge in extremes of behaviour. He was not, she told herself determinedly, too much to be blamed. But this game with fire must be stopped, before it destroyed himself and Robert.

  The morning was cold. Heavy clouds massed to the west, and the smell of rain sharpened the wind. Leaves swirled past her as she rode and the grass flattened in the strong breeze. As she rode to the front door of New Hall one of Clara’s peacocks, no longer Clara’s, stalked away from her, crowned head high, the long, beautiful tail blowing gracefully in the wind as it trailed behind the bird.

  She handed her hat, crop and gloves to the footman who opened the door. ‘Is Mr Patrick at home?’

  ‘Yes, Your Ladyship. He’s breakfasting in the morning room.’

  ‘And my mother?’

  He shook his powdered head. ‘Has been unwell, I fear, Your Ladyship, and has been confined to her room for two days. Her breakfast has been taken to her.’

  ‘I see. Please let her know that I’m here, and tell her I’ll visit her after I’ve had a word with Mr Patrick.’

  ‘Certainly, Your Ladyship.’

  She smiled her thanks and left him. The house was very quiet. A small maid scurried by, dressed in her dark morning work-dress, carrying a bucket and mop. As she acknowledged the child’s shy greeting it came to Jessica with some surprise that this was the only servant she had encountered between the front door and the morning room. As a child it had seemed to her that New Hall had always at this time of day been an ant-heap of hurrying servants. It was a surprise too to discover that no footman waited at the morning room door to open it and announce her. For the first time she saw that what her mother had told her was true; times at New Hall might not be as desperate as they were at the old house, but neither were they as easy as they had been in the past.

  ‘Jessica!’ As she entered the room Patrick looked up from the paper he had been reading, tossed it on the table and came to his feet in a quick, graceful movement. He looked fresh, rested and bright-eyed as a child. He was wearing pale buckskin peg-topped trousers, neat fitting at slim waist and ankle, and a white silk shirt, the cravat loosely tied. He looked delighted to see her. ‘What an unexpected pleasure! I always say that the nicest things happen when you least expect them! And here I am, eating a dull-dog breakfast – and in you walk, pretty as a picture. Have you come to take me riding?’ He grinned, his eyes taking in her tailored jacket and flared riding skirt, ‘I swear I’m overeating so that if I’m not forced to some exercise soon I shall be as fat as butter!’ He slapped his narrow hips, laughing.

  She stopped just inside the door. If he noticed her silence, her strained expression, he gave no sign.

  ‘Won’t you take some breakfast? We’ve kidneys and bacon – I think they’re still hot. The eggs are gone – but I could order some more?’

  ‘No. Thank you.’

  ‘Why, Jessie—’ he smiled, a little cautiously, ‘—how very ill-tempered you look! Did you get out of the wrong side of the bed this morning? Is something wrong?’

  She had already decided that there would be no easy or tactful way to broach her subject. ‘I want to talk to you.’

  He smiled warmly. ‘Talk away. Here I am. Won’t you sit down first?’

  She shook her head. ‘Patrick – last night I rode by St Agatha’s. I was looking for Robert.’

  The bright eyes narrowed. ‘Ah.’

  ‘I saw a light in the church.’

  ‘And you investigated?’ His voice was light and pleasant, but all movement of his body had stilled.

  ‘Yes.’

  He sucked his lower lip, eyeing her speculatively. There was a small silence.

  ‘Patrick – in God’s name – what do you think you’re doing? Do you know what you’re playing with? It’s bad enough for you, but to involve Robert—! Can’t you see he’s already—’

  ‘What?’

  She hesitated. ‘—not as stable as he might be,’ she said. ‘You’ll drive him insane.’

  ‘Oh, nonsense!’ He threw the napkin he had been holding onto the table, smiling. ‘Jessica, you don’t understand the nature of—’

  She shook her head sharply, interrupting him. ‘No, Patrick! It’s you who doesn’t understand!’ She paused for a moment, controlling her anger. ‘Please. Listen. I haven’t come to argue with you. I haven’t come to reason. I haven’t even, God help me, come to plead with you to give up the filthy habit yourself. Something tells me that the breath would be wasted. I’ve come to ask you – to tell you – to stay away from Robert. And don’t dare – don’t dare –
to supply him with any more of that – that disgusting drug—!’

  He turned away from her, his young face impatient. ‘For God’s sake, Jessica, that’s up to Robert, isn’t it? He’s a grown man—!’

  ‘Which you are not!’ She was holding her calm with difficulty. ‘Whether you like it or not, Patrick, you are controllable. You are not yet your own master. If I told Mother of this – or of your gaming debts—’

  ‘I’d deny it!’ His voice had risen. ‘Grandmama would never believe you over me! Never! Take care, Jessica! Don’t cross me! I have Grandmama here—’ He tucked a long finger into the palm of his own hand. ‘Don’t make me use that against you. Oh, Jessica—’ Even now he tried to laugh, tossing the hair from his eyes, the anger of a second before replaced by shameless coaxing, ‘I thought you were my friend—!’

  The fury that Jessica had been so determined to control was flooding her, and she was helpless against it. ‘And this is how you repay friendship? To feed Robert some horrible concoction that makes for him dreams that could drive him to addiction and insanity? To game with money that is not yours to gamble? To—’ she stopped. Patrick was looking past her, a stricken expression upon his face, every vestige of colour drained from his fine, fair skin.

  Very slowly Jessica turned.

  Maria Hawthorne, leaning heavily upon her gold-knobbed stick, stood in the open doorway.

  ‘Go on, Jessica,’ she said, the trembling of her voice barely discernible. ‘Really, my dear, you can hardly stop there.’

  ‘Mother—’ Jessica glanced distractedly at Patrick. Of all the things she had wanted, this was the last.

  Slowly, watched by two young people who seemed to have become rooted where they stood, the old woman limped into the room and closed the door behind her, then made her careful way across the shining polished floor to a chair at the head of the table, the irregular tapping of her stick loud in the quiet. With iron determination she allowed no tremor of pain to show in her face as she sat down straight-backed and autocratic, both hands folded upon the gold-knobbed stick that rested upon the floor before her. ‘Now. Where were we?’ she asked, pleasantly. ‘Jessica?’

  Jessica stood in silence.

  ‘Let me refresh your memory, daughter.’ The old woman paused. Bright colour was stealing into Patrick’s face. ‘Robert is being fed a horrible concoction that will drive him to addiction and insanity – really, Jessica, I can’t help thinking that your reading matter must lately have left a little to be desired! – And Patrick has been gaming with money that, as you quite rightly point out, is not his to gamble. You might add—’ apparently speaking to Jessica her eyes were upon Patrick’s burning face, unblinking, ‘—against his sworn word to me. Shall we start there? Or is there more?’

  Jessica miserably held her tongue. There seemed nothing she could say that would not do more damage.

  Patrick took a step forward, his hand outstretched. ‘Grandmama—?’ The word was a plea.

  ‘Leaving other matters aside for a moment, Patrick—’ Maria’s voice was cool, but still held that tremor of tightly-controlled emotion, fire burning beneath a fragile crust of ice. ‘Let us first establish something. What are these new debts of yours?’

  He shook his head. His face was taut and frightened.

  ‘What – are – your – debts?’ The old lady emphasized each quiet word with a rap of her stick upon the floor.

  He took a breath as if to speak. His mouth worked. He said nothing.

  Maria sighed, and for a brief moment closed her eyes. ‘Patrick – this is not the first time we have had this conversation. Is it?’

  ‘No, Grandmama.’

  ‘In three years – how many times? Five? Six? How many times have you cried repentance? Sworn and promised reform?’

  He said nothing.

  ‘How many times have I taken your word? Foolishly taken your word that you will curb your wild behaviour?’

  ‘Mother—’ Jessica stepped forward, her eyes worried upon her mother’s drawn face.

  Her mother turned her head. ‘Yes, Jessica?’

  ‘This – this is my fault. I lost my temper—’

  ‘So I heard. And for good reason, it seems.’

  Jessica bit her lip. Angry as she had been with Patrick the last thing she had intended was to precipitate such a scene. ‘This – this is between me and Patrick,’ she said, ‘there’s no reason for you to upset yourself so—’

  The still formidably bright eyes flickered to Patrick and back again. ‘Really?’ Maria asked, very gently. ‘Are you quite sure about that?’ She waited in silence for a moment. Neither of the young people spoke. Maria’s gaze transferred to Patrick. He sustained it for a difficult moment then looked away, ducking his head, his fair skin flushed. Maria’s rigid control had slipped a little. Her shoulders drooped, her face was tired as was her voice when she spoke. ‘What is it you’ve been doing this time that made Jessica so very angry?’

  His long index finger rubbed nervously at the buckskin of his breeches. He neither looked up nor answered.

  ‘Patrick?’

  He lifted his head at last. His young face was bright with a kind of guilty defiance. ‘Jessica found Robert and me in St Agatha’s last night. We were—’ he faltered a little ‘—we were smoking opium.’

  Maria did not move, but Jessica saw the swift shadow of distaste that flickered in her face. ‘Robert? You induced Robert to smoke opium?’

  Patrick shrugged, childishly insolent.

  Slowly and with great care Maria stood and tapped her way to the window, where she stood with her back to the occupants of the room, looking out into the park. Patrick stole a glance at Jessica’s concerned face, then looked quickly away. There was a long silence. At last, with a long sigh that visibly lifted her shoulders, Maria turned. ‘Patrick – what are your debts?’ she asked again, very quietly.

  The habit of authority won. Patrick’s bravura left him. ‘I’m – not sure.’

  ‘But – you can guess, surely?’ The words were deceptively gentle.

  He sucked his lower lip. ‘A thousand – perhaps fifteen hundred guineas—’ he mumbled. ‘I can’t be certain – the interest—’

  Jessica gasped. Maria said nothing, but her grip on the cane that supported her visibly tightened.

  ‘It was a run of bad luck, that’s all,’ Patrick said defensively, ‘and when I couldn’t pay I had to go to the moneylenders again—’

  ‘Last year,’ Maria said, ignoring his words, ‘the estate settled debts of yours totalling over twelve hundred pounds. The year before—’

  ‘Mother, please—’ Jessica could not bear the flame of embarrassment in Patrick’s face. ‘I really think I should leave. This is between you and Patrick—’

  ‘No. Stay. You must stay.’ Beneath the sharpness of tone there was a thread of urgency she could not ignore. Maria looked levelly back at Patrick. Her back was to the light and her face was shadowed, but not enough to hide the depth of sadness in her eyes, the tiredness that invested every line. ‘Patrick. What is to become of you?’ she asked. ‘And of New Hall, when I am gone and there is no one to control you?’

  Patrick shifted uncomfortably.

  ‘You have flouted every rule of decent behaviour. You have broken every promise, to me and to others. You are eighteen years old. An inveterate gambler, a compulsive womanizer. And now opium.’ A trace of weary bitterness had appeared in her voice. ‘What other surprises do you have in store for me?’

  ‘It – it won’t happen again, Grandmama. I promise.’ The words rang weakly in every ear that heard them, including Patrick’s own. He fell to silence.

  Maria was watching him, her face intent. ‘No,’ she said, her voice oddly flat. ‘I don’t think it will.’

  He frowned a little at the tone.

  Maria walked back to the table, laid her stick upon it and then leaned forward, palms flat upon the shining surface, supporting her. ‘I have something to tell both of you. Something I believed I would neve
r reveal to a living soul.’ Her eyes rested upon Patrick’s face. ‘Something I would have given my life not to have you know.’

  A deep foreboding stirred in Jessica. ‘Mother—’ she began, uneasily.

  Maria silenced her with a quick movement of her hand. ‘It is necessary, Jessica. I am forced to it. Forced to it by Patrick’s weakness. I have deceived myself for long enough. Patrick – if you cannot control yourself then I must do it for you by any means within my grasp. However painful it may be.’ She lifted her head to look at her daughter. ‘And Jessica must know so that always, when I am gone, there is a check on you.’ She paused, then spoke directly to Jessica. ‘You are the only one I would entrust with such a burden.’

  Jessica shook her head. She wanted nothing of secrets. And she had burdens enough of her own—

  The unstable colour had lifted again in Patrick’s face. ‘Grandmama—’

  She would not let him speak. ‘When you go to your moneylenders, Patrick – to pay off your gaming debts – to pacify angry fathers and brothers – to purchase your drugs and your alcohol – with what do you secure your loans?’

  He frowned a little, puzzled.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘With – with my inheritance. They know what I’ll be worth when I’m twenty-one. They know they’ll get their money in the end. Specifically, this time, I mortgaged the lands to the east of the village, next to the Lavenham Road. The enclosed commons that haven’t been sown yet. Giles himself said he doubted their worth to the estate—’

  ‘I see.’ For the first time Maria bowed her head, tiredly, looking down at her spread hands. It seemed to Jessica that all at once she looked unsure of herself and the step she had obviously decided to take. Yet when she lifted her head there was nothing but painful and simple determination upon her face. ‘And – if I told you that, legitimately, you have no inheritance? That it has all been built on a lie?’

  The boy watched her as if struck to stone. ‘What do you mean?’

  Maria looked down at her hands again. Jessica’s stomach churned uncomfortably.