Someone coughed. Feet were shuffled. The servants, mopping their eyes, started to move away. Maria shifted a little in her chair. In that moment Jessica could not look at her, could not speak to or go near her. She turned away. John had moved out from the shadow of the trees and waited for her. Jessica, Gabriella still clinging to her hand, hurried to him. He scrambled over the low wall and opened his arms to her. ‘Jessica!’
‘John! It’s really you?’ The tears she had been shedding for Patrick still ran down her face, yet looking into the strong, calm face she smiled. She lifted her veil and he bent to kiss her lightly upon her salty cheek. Other mourners had seen the stranger now and a small ripple of comment ran around the group.
‘It’s really me. I reached the village last night, and heard the news. I didn’t come up to the house – I didn’t want to bother anyone—’ His eyes had wandered past her. She turned to follow his gaze. Giles and Clara were staring at him with surprised eyes, the expression of unwelcome on Clara’s face close to hostility. Maria was still sitting stock still by the open grave, a small sheaf of lilies in her lap. As they watched in silence a serving man approached her, bent and spoke in her ear.
The old lady shook her head, sharply. The man straightened and stepped back, leaving her alone. With immense effort she lifted the flowers and dropped them into the open grave.
‘Oh John,’ Jessica said, softly and sadly, ‘there’s so much to tell you—’
* * *
At Jessica’s eager invitation he came to them at Old Hall in time for supper that evening, having accompanied Maria home from the funeral and stayed with her for the day. ‘The doctor’s given her a draught, though it was the devil’s own job to make her take it,’ he said. ‘She’s asleep.’ Gratefully he accepted a glass of wine, smiling ruefully, ‘And I somehow didn’t get the feeling that I’d be particularly welcome at New Hall.’ He obviously had not missed any more than Jessica had, the coolness of the welcome his brother had extended to the unexpected guest, nor the hard and calculating look in Clara’s eyes as she offered her cheek to his kiss. Anyone with any claim upon them, however small, was likely to get short shrift from those two.
Over supper, taken in the small parlour because the ceiling of the dining room had all but fallen in, he told them his news. ‘I’ve come to say goodbye. I’ve joined a missionary order – Brothers of the Cross – and am being sent to Africa.’
Jessica, absurdly she knew, was dismayed. ‘Whereabouts in Africa?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Wherever I’m needed.’
‘But – isn’t it terribly dangerous?’
He shrugged a little, and smiled. ‘The Lord will protect me for as long as He wills.’ The words were spoken with a simple conviction that defied argument. His thin brown face radiated a calm happiness that for a moment struck Jessica to silence. She was reminded of the thought she had once had that of all of them John was probably the most contented. Seeing now the untroubled tranquillity mirrored in his eyes she knew it to be true. John was a man at peace with himself, with his God and with his world. He wanted nothing but what he had, and the radiance of his faith was a gift from that God he obviously served so well and which he equally obviously would not have exchanged for the ransom of a king. For a brief moment, deeply and painfully she envied him – and at the incongruity of that she had to smile a little.
He noticed and lifted his strong, dark brows in amused enquiry. Robert had wandered to the small piano at the far end of the room and was playing softly, his eyes distant, as far removed from them as if he had been in another world. ‘Why do you smile?’ John asked.
She laughed wryly. ‘Because believe it or not for an idiotic moment I was envying you – imagining myself in my nun’s veil working by your side to convert the heathen. Can you imagine it?’
His burst of laughter was genuinely amused. ‘No, I can’t, little sister!’ But his quiet and observant eyes had not missed the grim quirk to her mouth nor the sudden self-questioning doubt in her eyes. He covered her hand with his own. ‘We are all called to serve in our separate ways, Jessica,’ he said quietly.
‘You really believe that?’ Her voice was suddenly tired.
‘Of course. And it’s an unusually lucky man – or woman – who sees the road ahead as straight and clear as I did.’
She shook her head, laughing again, rueful and a little bitter. ‘Oh, John! Little do you know! Nothing’s straight. Nothing’s clear. Not in this life!’
He took her hand in his. ‘Tell me,’ he said.
And to her astonishment, she did. She told him everything, from her discovery about Giles to the disaster of her marriage, her love for Danny, Gabriella’s birth, their return to England and the awful circumstances of poor Patrick’s suicide. She nibbled her thumbnail, her face tight with grief. ‘Oh, John – if only Mother hadn’t decided to come downstairs to see me that morning! – if only I’d held my temper with Patrick! – if only—’
‘No.’ He spoke almost for the first time, sharply and with authority. ‘Stop that, Jessica. It does no good.’
‘I know. I know. But I can’t seem to help it—’
‘Of course you can.’ The briskness of the words was tempered by a warm smile, and his hand on hers was kindly. ‘You can do anything if you try. With God’s help.’
She smiled, weakly. ‘To be honest with you I don’t think He can much care one way or the other. And who’s to blame Him?’
He shook his head gently, said nothing.
She fell to silence for a moment, then lifted her head, looking at him with real curiosity in her face. ‘Tell me – do you see some great purpose in all this? Some pattern that none of us can fathom?’
‘Who knows? God’s pattern? The devil’s? Each can be as obscure as the other.’
‘And you? You truly don’t care about any of this? New Hall? – The land? – The money—?’
He shook his head, laughing. ‘Remember what we used to sing as children? Daisies are silver, buttercups gold—’
‘And you truly still feel that?’
‘Yes.’
From the far end of the room the piano notes fell into the silence, little drops of music like raindrops into a pool. Jessica thought for a moment, brows in a straight serious line. ‘It isn’t the money—’ she said, slowly, only just aware that she had spoken aloud.
He followed her train of thought with remarkable percipience. ‘I know that, little sister. For Giles and Clara – for Mother too, and I think for Caroline – the things that are all-important are the things that money can buy – influence, power, the grand life. For you – I think it’s the roots. The land. The belonging.’
‘The heritage,’ she said, quietly. ‘I’ve never forgotten that night you faced Father and told him what you thought of the Hawthorne heritage. I don’t – I can’t – agree with you – but I thought then, and I still think now, that it was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen.’
He stretched his legs beneath the shabby skirt of his soutane. The piano was gay now, rippling like sunshine on water. ‘I was wrong.’
She stared at him. ‘Of course you weren’t.’
He nodded. ‘Oh yes. I was wrong. For I had overlooked something.’
‘What?’
He paused, a pensive frown on his face. ‘I had overlooked the fact that a heritage is not merely a material possession to be handed from one to another, to be accepted or rejected at will. A house. A plot of land. A purseful of gold. Yes – these things one can accept or despise, take or leave. But, Jessica – if I found the courage to fight Father for what I wanted, then ironically that courage was my heritage from him. Perhaps Giles would not hate Mother so much for what she did to him through Patrick if he understood that his own ruthlessness is the mirror-image of hers. Take it further – if Patrick had not, like Edward, inherited Father’s looks the deception would not have worked so easily. It’s all so very much more complicated than it seems, isn’t it? I was a frightened boy who saw things in b
lack and white. I still reject that material heritage that in one way or another seems to mean so much to you all – but I recognize and thank God for that which I carry inside me. Whatever drove some forebear to brave the obscenities of the slave trade and make a fortune will hopefully give me the strength to face whatever awaits me in the jungle continent of Africa – and will stand you in good stead to put Old Hall back on its feet again—’
She laughed, surprised. ‘You can hardly speak of the two things in the same breath!’
‘But of course!’ He was serious. ‘You’ve inherited the courage too. And the strength. Perhaps even some of the ruthlessness—’ He was looking at her with calm, assured yet gentle eyes that might have been looking directly into her soul. It occurred to her that her brother was probably a very good priest indeed. ‘Be careful, Jessica,’ he said softly. ‘Be careful how you use that most precious part of your heritage.’
The piano had stopped.
‘I won’t leave Old Hall,’ she said very quietly. ‘I won’t see it fall to pieces. I won’t see its people abandoned to starve. I won’t see Gabriella brought up like a wandering gypsy. I want this place for her and for her children. A safe and loving place, where they belong.’ Robert played a gentle scale. She lowered her voice, that had risen passionately, ‘If that’s wrong, then I’m wrong. There’s nothing I can do about it.’
John chuckled suddenly. ‘Perhaps I should persuade you to come with me, veil or no veil. There’d be a few Zulus who’d think twice about taking you on in that frame of mind.’
She laughed with him. ‘It isn’t Zulus I want to take on. It’s a few more sheep and a few more acres of turnips to feed them. It’s more work for the people. It’s decent houses instead of hovels, and schooling for the children. Giles won’t do any of that—’ She stopped, a little surprised at herself. This was the first time she had allowed herself to think further than the simple salvaging of Old Hall, and certainly the first time she had realized that her opposition to Giles might be more than merely personal. She nibbled her thumbnail again, thoughtfully.
He grinned, white teeth in a brown face. ‘There speaks a Hawthorne if ever I heard one.’ Robert was approaching them. John stood up, stretching, ‘Well, if you don’t mind – I’m for my bed.’
She stood too, and took his hand. ‘How long can you stay?’ Her voice was wistful. It had been so very long since she had had anyone to talk to – she was surprised at how clearly this conversation had defined for her things that she had not until now even allowed herself to think about. It’s confession, she thought, ruefully, watching her priestly brother, it really is good for the soul—
‘A few days only. Then I must go. I truly did come to say goodbye. There’s so much work to do—’
‘You won’t come back? To England I mean?’
‘I doubt it very much.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘Don’t look so sad. I’ll write, I promise.’
‘Will you at least stay for the meeting?’
‘Yes. Giles particularly asked me to, and I think I should—’ he grinned wryly, ‘—if only to reassure Giles and his lady wife that I have no designs on New Hall or on New Hall money, now or in the future—’
Jessica had to laugh. She tucked her hand into his arm and walked him to the door. ‘That,’ she said with feeling, ‘will undoubtedly make you the most popular – and unusual! – Hawthorne of all!’
* * *
Two days before the family meeting called by Giles, of which she had spoken to John, Jessica paid a visit to Home Farm. Charlie was in the small enclosure behind the barn with three or four black-faced ewes. Jessica dismounted and leaned on the gate, watching as with deft movements Charlie pared the sheep’s feet with a small sharp knife before smearing them liberally with an evil-looking paste from a bucket by his side. He nodded a friendly greeting when he saw her, finished treating the last ewe then straightened and came to the gate, carrying the bucket.
Jessica wrinkled her nose. ‘Whatever is that?’
‘Treatment for foot-rot.’ He swung the bucket over the gate then followed it, surprisingly athletic for such a big man. ‘Copper. Zinc. Charcoal. Eucalyptus. Tha’ss mixed in treacle. Sticky, but it works a treat.’
She nodded. They stood for a moment, watching the sheep. All were black-faced and long-legged, the Norfolk breed that was famous for the quality of its meat, though the wool was of a quality less than fine. Over the past year Jessica knew that Charlie had been experimenting with a Southern Down cross, knew too that so far the results looked very promising.
Charlie walked to the rainwater trough by the barn and rinsed the evil-smelling mixture from his hands. His homespun shirt was grubby and ill-fitting, his broad shoulders straining at the seams, and there were two buttons missing. Jessica smiled and not for the first time reflected that Charlie Best could do with a wife.
‘I hear the Ruxtons over at Link Farm have a couple of Merino rams,’ she said.
He straightened from the trough, looking thoughtful, absently drying his hands on the seat of his trousers. ‘That so?’
She nodded.
‘Cost a pretty penny for a season I reckon?’
She fell into step beside him as they crossed the yard to the house. ‘More than we can afford at the moment I’m afraid,’ she admitted. ‘But – I wondered – might it be worthwhile to take a couple of ewes over there? Just as an experiment? Mr Ruxton charges ten guineas a time. We could just about afford that, couldn’t we?’
He led the way into the stark, dark interior of the house.
‘Charlie? Don’t you think it’s a good idea?’
He pulled a chair forward for her. ‘Hard to tell. Might be. Might not. Rather see any money there is saved for new stock next spring meself.’
‘Oh?’ She raised surprised brows.
He settled himself opposite her, his square brown face earnest, then, colouring suddenly, he scrambled to his feet again and stood like an embarrassed schoolboy. She smiled. They were so easy together that a total lack of formality had become the hallmark of their relationship. Only rarely now did Charlie suddenly and self-consciously become aware, as now, of a breach of manners or etiquette. She waved him to the chair, smiling scoldingly. ‘Don’t be silly, Charlie! Sit down, do! Now – what’s this about new spring stock? I thought the time to buy was now – in the autumn – while the fairs were on?’
He leaned his elbows on the table. ‘Usually – traditionally – aye, tha’ss right. But tha’ss bin a bad year for feed this year. I’ve – we’ve – bin luckier than most.’
‘You mean you’ve been cleverer than most.’ Jessica knew how well Charlie managed the land. He had a feel for it.
He shrugged a little. ‘Turnips are comin’ in well. An’ the cabbages. We’re well off fer winter feed.’
‘Then why not buy now – as usual?’
He was slow in answering. ‘Ay, tha’ss what they’ll all do – or most of ’em. Even though feed’s short.’
‘So?’
‘So there’s not a lot of profit in that, is there – buyin’ now an’ havin’ ter see the stock through the winter when feed is low? To me that makes more sense to wait. Prices are high now. So wait – store the feed for the spring – by then there’ll be some ready to give their stock away, for they won’t be able to feed ’em, ’specially if the winter’s hard, an’ I’ve got a feelin’ it will be – That gives us the chance of a fair, quick profit over the summer—’
‘Isn’t it a bit of a gamble? Supposing it’s a mild winter?’
‘It won’t be,’ he said, positively. ‘Look – we’ve enough winter feed already for the flock as it stands. If I plant late turnips, kale and winter rye by spring we’ll have more feed than we know what to do with—’
‘Whilst those who are short of winter feed,’ Jessica said thoughtfully, ‘will find it difficult to see their flocks through between root and grass and might be willing to sell cheaply—?’
‘Tha’ss the idea.’ He grinned widely at her easy
use of the shepherd’s phrase for the months of March to May.
She sat back in her chair. ‘It certainly sounds a good plan. And with the profits we might make we could perhaps afford a Merino for the following season, to improve the wool?’
He shrugged. ‘Far as I’m concerned next year’s better than this. Like I said, it’s goin’ to be a hard winter. I feel it in me bones. An’ them Merino crosses might produce fine wool, but tha’ss an animal with no defence against the cold, an’ the fleece holds the water like a sponge. Why not let Links Farm find out how their stock overwinter before we try it out?’
She looked at him in mildly teasing astonishment. ‘How very crafty you are, Charlie Best! But then you always were, weren’t you? You always managed to talk your way out of things when we were children, didn’t you?’
He chuckled. ‘You’ll take a cup of milk?’
‘Yes, please.’ She watched him, still smiling, as he stood, picked up a small jug and went into the yard. At the pump she saw him stop, swiftly strip off his shirt, pump the handle rapidly and duck his head and his torso under the splashing water. Then, unaware of her eyes upon him, he straightened, hair dripping, pulled his shirt back on and disappeared from sight. She smiled again. She liked Charlie. She liked his warm, quiet voice with its dearly familiar Suffolk accent, she liked his big, square, brown hands, his strong, weather-beaten face, the untidy sun-bleached hair. She liked the uncomplicated honesty of him, and the dependability. He never changed. She liked the way he treated her, with no trace of servility, his respect for her based upon what he knew of her as a person, not her position in the arbitrary and inequal society in which they lived. He had a sharp brain and he was the hardest-working man she had ever met. She trusted him implicitly. And the more she thought about it the more she liked the idea of buying new stock in spring—
‘What sort of numbers were you, thinking of?’ she asked as he came back through the door with the dripping jug in his hand. ‘You’ve planted the back acres with turnip and kale, haven’t you?’
The Hawthorne Heritage Page 47
