CHANGE OF HEART
A Romantic Novel of Long Ago Margaret Eastvale
Anne had thought him lost to her forever But now, after six long years, the news arrived that Lord Ashorne was alive —not killed while fighting in Spain as she had believed.
An irrational thrill surged through her … but the next moment Anne admonished herself for her foolish excitement. She knew that Lord Ashorne had never had eyes for anyone but her older sister. Knew, too, that he would never return her own childhood passion for him. His reappearance could make no difference to her.
But still her heart throbbed wildly in her breast…
CHAPTER
ONE
‘Cheer up, Julia. The post has come at last!’ Anne Wetherly dropped the bulging postbag on to the drawing-room table, not at all anticipating the shock it contained for them both. ‘I heard the mail-coach go past this morning and sent a footman along to the Royal Oak directly.’
‘Thank heavens!’ Julia tossed aside her well-thumbed copy of La Belle Assemblée. ‘I was beginning to fear that we had lost touch with civilisation for ever.’
She sprang up from the sofa and pounced on the postbag with childlike enthusiasm. Anne retrieved the magazine and, automatically straightening the crumpled pages, watched with amusement as her sister eagerly sorted through the letters. Sometimes it was hard for her to credit that Julia was in her thirties now—nine years older than she was. Often Anne felt immeasurably older than her dainty sister.
Marriage, motherhood—even her husband’s death, nearly ten months ago now—had left little mark on Julia’s classic beauty. Her sombre mourning garb merely accentuated the frail femininity that made every male hurry to assist her; the black an admirable foil to her ash-blonde hair and flawless complexion. Only the most cruel sunlight betrayed her age, and by now it had become second nature for Julia to sit with her back to the light.
‘Isn’t it amazing how the bills always seem to thrust themselves to the top of the pile!’ Julia complained, casting them aside to investigate the rest. ‘Nothing here from that wretched fiancé of yours, my love. I’ll give him such a scold when he comes for neglecting us so. We have scarcely set eyes on him all the months we have been penned up here! You haven’t been quarrelling with him, have you?’
‘Of course not. You know as well as I do that James appreciates his comfort above anything. You cannot blame him for staying in town while the roads are so bad.’
Julia could—and did.
‘If the Mail can get through then so can James. He promised to come three weeks ago. It is too bad of him to let us down. He might guess that it is just as unpleasant for us stuck here in the wilds—at least his coming would relieve the boredom a little. Here’s a letter for you from Aunt Mattie.’ She tossed it across, riffled through a clutter of invitation cards, then triumphantly dragged out a thick packet addressed to herself in generously flowing script. ‘I knew Fanny would not fail me! I don’t know how I should endure life here without her letters. They are always bursting with news—all the latest scandals and crim. cons.!’
‘It is lucky her husband can give her a frank,’ observed Anne, eyeing askance the five sheets her sister was unfolding. ‘Otherwise we should be ruined by the post charges.’
‘Phoo! It would be worth the expense. To be stuck in this dreary place all winter through is bad enough, but it becomes utterly unbearable when we don’t receive a letter for weeks on end!’
‘Six days to be precise. You had a three-page epistle from Fanny just before the last snowfall blocked the roads again.’
‘Well it feels like six lifetimes!’ Julia skimmed eagerly through the first sheet. ‘Oh, how I wish we could have been in London this season! Fanny sends the most diverting account of the Grand Duchess Catherine—declares she is at least a hundred and as ugly as sin. She and the Regent loathed each other on sight—well, the meeting must have been an awful shock to them both, to be sure. Fanny says that Prinney is odder than ever—she is convinced that he will end up as mad as his father—and there are the choicest rumours circulating about the Princess of Wales, too delicate for her to specify. Oh it isn’t fair! Here we are, cooped up like a pair of crows, missing it all, seeing no one and with nothing to do. And just when I could have been enjoying it most!’
Anne paid little heed to the familiar complaint. The fun-loving Julia had always found it hard even in summer to bear the boredom of country life, but when the London season was in full swing she considered her rural seclusion unendurable; although even she had to acknowledge that she must observe the proper term of mourning for her late husband. To do anything else would be social suicide, however great the breach that had been between them.
But that did not make it any easier for her to accept the tedium.
To make matters worse, this winter had been the most severe Anne remembered, keeping them confined to the house for weeks on end. From London Fanny might write of the delights of the great Frost Fair set up on the frozen Thames, but here in the country deep snowdrifts made even driving to church on Sunday an almost impossible journey, and the few outings that were proper for a widow in mourning out of the question.
Fetching down rusty skates and toboggan from the attics, Anne had thoroughly enjoyed initiating her young nephew into the joys of winter sports. The two of them had spent happy hours swooping across the ice or hurtling into the drifts, but Julia had refused their invitation to join them with incredulous horror. Hunched over the fire with her fashion magazines, she had greeted with disgust their return, rosy cheeked and glowing from the exercise.
Not that a mild Winter would have raised Julia’s spirits greatly. She scorned such country pastimes as walking, riding or sketching, declaring that she felt truly alive only in the bustle and confusion of balls, routs, theatre visits and all the other excitement of a London season.
Anne understood, though she did not share Julia’s love of town life. The social scene bored her—perhaps because there she always walked in the shadow of her more beautiful sister.
While Julia yearned for London she was perfectly happy attending to the running of the house, amusing Kit, or taking solitary walks with the deerhound who now sat quietly at her side.
‘Only ten more weeks and you’ll be out of mourning,’ she reminded her sister soothingly.
‘And it is not fair to say we see no one. I’m sure all the neighbours have been amazingly kind and attentive.’
Indeed, she reflected, every unattached male in the district—and a fair number of the married ones too—came regularly on various ingenious pretexts to offer their services to the beautiful young widow who combined fragile loveliness with a respectable jointure. Came quite unnecessarily, as Julia had a competent steward to attend to her business problems.
Although Anne had never liked Weston, she had to admit that he performed his duties efficiently. The estates ran smoothly under his care.
Even so the hopefuls came. Julia’s welcome encouraged their frequent return. When Anne protested that this keeping open house would cause gossip, her objections produced only sulks and an accusation that she was jealous—quite unfounded criticism, as she had as little interest in them as they had in her. She doubted whether any of the callers even noticed her presence except as an inconvenient obstacle to the tête-à-tête they craved with their idol.
Anne knew that Julia had received at least two eligible offers to change her state, but even in the boredom of this mourning year Julia was too exhilarated by the sense of freedom widowhood gave her to be tempted into another marriage yet. She was impatient to taste its benefits on a wider scale.
‘Ten weeks is far too late,’ she replied petulantly. ‘The season is all but finished then. All the fun will be over. If Thomas h
ad to break his stupid neck, then why couldn’t he have chosen a more convenient time to do it?’
Julia’s heartlessness on that subject had long ceased to shock her sister. In part, Anne sympathised. Despite its romantic beginning the marriage had been far from happy. Even before his son was born Thomas had been unfaithful, and his affaires had soon become more frequent and public. At the time of his death he had been driving hell for leather along the winding country lanes to impress his latest mistress, who had been thrown out of the phaeton with him.
Amazingly, Julia had sought her out and handsomely compensated her for the injuries she had sustained in the accident. Having herself first-hand knowledge of Thomas’s single-minded persistence when in pursuit of any object, she declared in answer to all criticism, she did not blame the girl in the slightest. Her only complaint about the entire incident was that she had to observe the customary year of mourning for a man she had long ceased to love or respect. That she bemoaned loud and often. Nothing Anne could say would reconcile her to it.
‘Even if you miss this season there will be others,’ Anne now reminded her soothingly, but her sister was not to be cheered.
‘It is all very well for you to talk so airily. You may have plenty of time. My years are slipping away too fast for me to squander one. Here I am—twenty-eight already…’
‘Thirty-one.’ Anne corrected her without thinking. ‘I was twenty-two in December and you are nine years older than me, so…’
‘Why must you always be so horridly exact,’ complained Julia with an angry pout. ‘It is not in the least feminine nor polite to take people up so sharply. Anyway I am only thirty at the moment. I shan’t be thirty-one till next month!’
Crossly she returned to reading Fanny’s letter. Anne opened her own, ignoring the shriek of horror that Julia let out as she scanned her last sheet. Accustomed by now to Julia’s dramatisation of trifles, she presumed Fanny’s pug must have fallen sick or an expensive new bonnet been spoiled in the rain. Anne concentrated on trying to puzzle out the crabbed writing that crossed and recrossed the single sheet from their aunt, commenting wryly.
‘Perhaps Fanny’s extravagance has its merits after all. Aunt Mattie leans too far the other way in her thrift on our behalf. I think she is asking to come and stay with us this summer, but whether this word is ‘Julia’ or ‘July’ I cannot determine. It is so mixed up with the other line as to be indecipherable. Do look and see if you can make it out.’
She stopped abruptly as she realised that Julia was still staring in horror-stricken silence at the last page of Fanny’s letter, her face as white as the paper she clutched.
‘Whatever is the matter, Julia?’
The widow’s cornflower blue eyes were wide with shock.
‘Edmund!’ she whispered. ‘Fanny has seen Edmund!’
As Anne stared unbelievingly back at her, she laughed wildly. ‘Yes, Edmund Claverdon!
Lord Ashorne!’
Anne, conscious of the treacherous lurch her heart still gave at the name, forced herself to remain calm. With only the faintest tremor in her voice she declared, ‘Nonsense! Fanny is just the sort of silly creature to imagine she has seen a ghost.’
‘But it wasn’t a ghost,’ shrieked Julia. ‘He’s alive! He wasn’t killed in that wretched battle as we all supposed—only captured by the French and imprisoned.’
How could he have been alive all this time without anyone knowing?’ Anne was still incredulous, not daring to accept so fantastic a tale. It would be too cruel to believe it then have her hopes dashed again. ‘Is Fanny quite sure?’
‘Positive! She wasn’t able to speak to Edmund herself, but she sent her husband to the Home Office to ferret out the details and there is not the least doubt about it. Edmund is alive.’
‘But why haven’t we heard before?’
‘It seems that at first he was too badly injured to give his name to his captors and when he recovered and tried to send word all the messages about him were lost. Fanny’s husband says things are so chaotic there that it isn’t at all surprising. But whatever the reason, he was freed when our forces advanced and overran his prison camp. As the war is all but over now, he has sold out of the army and has come back to England. Fanny unsealed her letter to be first with the news. Says she expects I shall be interested in it, spiteful cat! For all the treacly phrases I can tell how she is revelling in the situation. She was always one to delight in other people’s misfortunes, even when we were at school. Whatever shall I do!’
Anne found it hard to concentrate on anything but the irrational thrill of excitement that surged through her at the thought of Edmund being alive after all. Her heart pounded unbearably at the realisation that she would soon see him once more after she had supposed him lost for ever.
Impatiently she told herself that Edmund had never had eyes for anyone but Julia. Anne had known that he would never return the childish passion she had once felt for him herself, doubted if he even knew of it. She was ridiculous to allow herself to give way to her emotions in this silly manner. All that was over and done with years ago. Edmund’s reappearance could make little difference to her, but still her heart throbbed painfully.
With an effort she forced herself to think rationally.
‘We must make arrangements to leave here as soon as possible, I suppose. Edmund must be longing to return to his home without further delay. He always loved the country more than London.’ One of the things they had in common, she remembered wistfully.
Her sister stared blankly back.
‘ Leave here? But why should we?’
‘Because if Edmund is really alive then Ashorne is still his home, not yours,’ Anne explained patiently.
‘But Thomas inherited it and left it to Kit and me.’
‘That was all a mistake. If Edmund was only captured, not killed, then the estate must still be his. You can check with your lawyer if you don’t believe me, but you will find I am correct. How could it possibly be otherwise?’
‘All Edmund’s!’ Julia’s voice rose to a shriek. ‘Then what am I supposed to live on?’
‘There is the money Papa left you for a start…’
‘That pittance! It wouldn’t keep me in gloves.’
Anne, who found that her own lesser share of their father’s wealth amply covered all her needs, ignored that petulant comment and went on smoothly.
‘Then there is Thomas’s own property. All that he owned before he inherited the Ashorne titles and estates—or rather supposed that he inherited them. Melthorpe Hall will still be yours, and all its lands. You will have to live there again.’
‘Go back to that poky little hovel after living in this beautiful house?’ shrilled Julia, scarlet with fury. ‘I couldn’t bear it. I should be stifled.’
Anne thought fleetingly of all the times Julia had complained of the inconvenience of traipsing the endless corridors of what she then termed ‘ a gloomy barn of a place,’ of her regular annoyance when the dishes arrived at the table lukewarm after their long journey from the kitchens to the dining-room. But she knew it was useless to remind Julia of these faults now. Instead she contented herself with observing, ‘You liked Melthorpe Hall well enough when you were first married. I am sure you will soon get used to it again. It is fortunate that you never got round to letting it as you intended.
Perhaps it may need some attention alter lying empty for so long, but we can put the work in hand immediately. It shouldn’t take too long. Does Fanny say when we may expect Edmund?’
‘No.’
‘I expect it will be a while yet. Edmund is bound to have business to attend to in town; his reappearance must cause many problems that will take time to unravel. On the other hand Fanny’s letter may have been delayed by the bad weather.’
Julia glanced anxiously at it.
‘Lord, yes!’ she wailed. ‘It is dated a week ago and the postscript concerning Edmund only one day later, so he may arrive at any time to cast us out into the snow!’ Seeing
her sister’s involuntary smile, she amended this irritably. ‘Don’t tell me! The snow has all melted now— out into the Hoods, then. That is equally nasty.’
‘I can hardly believe Edmund will have changed so greatly as to do that. He may have been impatient at times, but never heartless. I am sure he will guess how difficult it will be for you to revert to being plain Mrs. Claverdon again without expecting you to leave, all in a minute, what has been your home for nearly five years.’
‘Plain Mrs. Claverdon!’ echoed Julia indignantly. ‘I will not be anything of the kind. I shall insist on being addressed as Lady Ashorne still. Surely no one could expect me to give up my title as well as all the rest. It would be too cruel!’
Fervently Anne wished that she had not raised the subject, but the truth had to be faced sooner or later, unpleasant though Julia might find it. Perhaps it was as well to get all the shocks over in one.
‘I fear that they will. That title is reserved for Edmund’s wife. Unless in the peculiar circumstances they allowed you to call yourself the Dowager Lady Ashorne, but you would hardly enjoy that, would you?’
‘Lord, no!’ Julia shuddered dramatically. ‘I could not endure it. Dowager is such a horribly ageing expression. Poor Sally Painswick put on twenty years when her son took a wife and everyone made such a point of the Dowager whenever they spoke of her. I’m convinced that to be rid of it was the sole reason for her second marriage to that insipid baronet.’ Her face cleared miraculously. ‘How stupid of me! Of course, that is the solution. I must marry Edmund. After all, we were engaged before he went to Spain. I expect he has returned with every intention of honouring his promise.’
For a moment this airy suggestion took Anne’s breath away. Recovering, she ventured, ‘Don’t you feel that he might consider your eloping with Thomas broke the engagement?’
Reproachful blue eyes chided her as Julia replied soulfully, ‘One cannot mourn for ever!
Edmund will not condemn me for trying to grasp a little happiness when I supposed him lost to me for ever.’
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