Snowflakes in the Wind

by Rita Bradshaw

  Abby stared at Frank, her voice small when she said, ‘What do you think he will do?’ She had told him her name and she didn’t want to cause trouble for her grandfather.

  Frank shrugged. ‘Dunno.’ Looking at the other children who were standing silently now, clearly subdued by the episode, he said, ‘Come on, time to get home,’ and as one they began to move, the previous chatter and laughter gone.

  It was almost dark now, the faintest glow left in the wide expanse of sky above them as the night drew on and the twittering birds settled down for the cold night in the hedgerows. Abby glanced at her brother as they walked. ‘Do you think I ought to tell Granda what happened with the laird’s son?’

  ‘No.’ It was immediate.

  ‘What if he tells his father and they take it further and find out that Granda’s our granda?’

  ‘He might not, and if he does you can put your side then,’ said Robin with the inescapable logic of a seven-year-old who sees no sense in owning up to a misdemeanour unnecessarily.

  Abby nodded. She might worry her grandfather for nothing if she said anything now, but she was going to be on tenterhooks for the next weeks, that was for sure. Any delight in her new position at school had drained away and the whole day was spoiled. She hated the laird’s son and if she never saw him again in the whole of her life she’d be happy.

  Chapter Seven

  Nicholas Jefferson-Price – Nick to his friends – was frowning as he cantered home in the encroaching darkness. That little slip of a thing to talk to him like that, and to call him a bully! Him. If there was one thing he detested it was bullies, having lived with one all his life. His earliest memory was of his father ranting and raving and throwing his weight about; he didn’t know how his mother stood it.

  And then he corrected himself in the next breath. Of course he knew how she stood it; his mother was a lady born and bred and anything she didn’t like she distanced herself from, including her husband. She had her elite circle of friends, and privileged lifestyle, and spent most of her time reading, playing the harpsichord, titivating herself up with the latest fashions and arranging select dinner parties when they were in the country. And when in London, she fully embraced the glittering social scene in the capital. He had been brought up witnessing the occasional ball and fancy-dress party at Brookwell, as well as shoots when game rained down from the skies, and the hunting, fishing, boating and gambling. His father’s wealth provided his mother with the means to live as she had always been accustomed to, and so she was satisfied. He had long been aware of the separate bedrooms they occupied; it was only in the last year he had found out his father had a long-standing mistress whom he kept hidden away in a house in the countryside some distance from the estate.

  Shrugging his shoulders as though throwing off a weight, he rode on, his mind returning to the young girl in the lane. Now that his temper was cooling, he felt ashamed of the way he had behaved and he didn’t like the feeling. But for the row with his father before he had left the house he wouldn’t have reacted as he had done with the child, he told himself. He had been in a rage since he had left the house, that’s why he had ridden Jet so hard. He bent and patted the animal’s sleek neck in silent apology for working the horse up into a lather. But the chit still shouldn’t have spoken to him the way she had, damn it. She had shown him no respect whatsoever.

  However, within a minute or two Nicholas’s innate sense of fair play had him admitting to himself that the girl had been fully entitled to take him to task. He’d been a prat, as his school friends would say, he acknowledged ruefully. And she’d been a fiery little thing, for all her fragile appearance with that unusual silver-blonde hair and great eyes. Eyes that had blazed her contempt of him, he remembered with a wince. Not his finest hour.

  By the time he rode through the open wrought-iron gates leading onto the drive of the house, he had put the incident on the road behind him, preparing instead for the battle he knew was in store with his father. In the summer he was due to leave the public school he had attended since preparatory school. He was more than ready for this and a university life. What he wasn’t ready for was this unversity life to be conducted at Oxford or Cambridge as his father demanded. They might be the two senior universities in the land, but the fact that sport was practised with even greater intensity than at his public school, and a good number of undergraduates chose these two establishments to have a good time rather than to read or work hard, did not make them places he wished to be.

  Since the start of the century the growth of new universities had flourished but it was London University, which comprised not just University, King’s and Bedford Colleges, but in addition ten medical schools, six theological colleges, the London School of Economics and more besides, that was his choice. This, along with the fact that he wanted to become a doctor rather than follow his father into an army career, had caused his father to become apoplectic earlier. Their row had rocked the household and his mother had taken to her bed with a fit of the vapours, whereupon he had stormed out of the house and taken Jet for a wild gallop in the countryside to let off some of the steam that had him wanting to commit murder.

  Nicholas paused on the drive as the house came into view. Even the sure prospect of what awaited him inside couldn’t dim the rush of emotion the beauty of Brookwell always afforded him.

  The imposing neoclassical country house set in thirty-five acres of formal gardens and parkland was perfectly framed by the tall ancestral trees either side of it, and he had always loved his home. His grandfather, a rich and influential man who had added to his considerable inherited wealth by making more money in the Baltic trade in hemp and herrings, had bought the estate in 1850 as a marital home for his then fiancée. Almost immediately his grandfather had begun to enlarge the Georgian house, adding a Doric porte-cochère to the existing Ionic pillared entrance porch, a French Renaissance-style mansard roof and additional bedrooms for the servants. Apparently his grandfather had been the perfect country landowner of the ‘new money’ variety, being an excellent shot, good at sport, a fine horseman and possessed of considerable charm. He had also been a keen businessman and had seen to it that he bought up most of the surrounding farms and land in the district, covertly increasing his power and dominion decade by decade.

  Nicholas sighed heavily. He wished some of his grandfather’s charm could have been passed on to his firstborn, because if ever there was a surly individual it was his father. He might look the personification of the landed gentry, being tall and well-built and handsome, but there it ended. Taciturn and without conversation unless it embodied his money-making activities, it was simply his father’s wealth and influence that had always guaranteed him a place in the social scene.

  Digging his heels gently into the horse’s side they trotted up the drive, a couple of his father’s gardeners doffing their caps to him as he passed.

  When he had first realized as a youngster that physically he was the image of his father he had been mortified, so even then he must have disliked the man who had sired him, Nicholas reflected as he led Jet round to the back of the house where the stable boy was waiting to take charge of the horse. But it had been in the last year or two that his dislike had turned to something stronger, when he had come to understand that his father considered it his absolute right to control every aspect of his son’s future. And it seemed that in this, if nothing else, his mother was one hundred per cent in agreement with her husband.

  Nicholas pictured the shock and horror on his mother’s pretty face when he had announced that he intended to take up medicine as a career. ‘But you’ll be dealing with illness and disease,’ she had said, as though he didn’t know that. ‘And all manner of unpleasant things. Really, darling, that’s quite impossible, you must see that?’

  No, he had replied. He didn’t see that at all and it was what he wanted. More than that, he intended to make it happen.

  His father had cut in then, shouting and swearing as his countenance had
grown purple with rage at what he labelled his son’s ingratitude. On and on he had gone, using the brow-beating tactics that usually terrorized an opponent into submission, but not on this day and not with him, Nicholas thought with a degree of satisfaction. And he intended to stand his ground. Medicine was a noble pursuit, whatever his parents thought to the contrary, and he had no interest in business, he had told them.

  At this he had genuinely thought his father was going to have a seizure. No interest? he’d yelled back. No interest? What did he think paid for his fancy schooling and the rest of it? Not some ‘noble pursuit’, that was for sure. He’d been mollycoddled all his life, that was the trouble, spoon-fed and pampered and indulged. But no more. Damn it, no more. He’d do as he was told and that was the end of it. And then his father had turned on his mother, shouting that if she’d had to provide him with only one son instead of the quiverful that should have been his right, why had she presented him with this ungrateful so-an’-so? That had been the point at which his mother had taken to her bed saying she was unwell, but he and his father had continued their yelling match for some time.

  On reaching the stable block he left Jet in the care of the stable boy, with instructions that he rub the animal down thoroughly and make sure he was comfortable for the night. Entering the house through the beautifully furnished conservatory off the breakfast room – his father had always flatly refused to countenance any of the family using the kitchen door although that was the more direct route from the stable block – he made for the stairs and his suite of rooms on the first floor, but he only had one foot on the bottom step when the door to the drawing room sprang open and his father’s voice said, ‘Don’t think you can skulk off upstairs, m’lad. We’ve got things to settle. Get your backside in here.’

  Nicholas closed his eyes for a moment and then turned to face the man in the doorway.

  Gerald Jefferson-Price was tall – taller by some three inches than his son who was six foot – and his height was further enhanced by his broad shoulders and straight military bearing. His contemporaries would label him a fine figure of a man and they would be right, but the undisputed good looks and athletic body hid a nature that was cold and harsh and insensitive. He was not an unintelligent man but had recognized years ago that his son possessed a brain that was vastly superior to his own, and although outwardly he professed scorn at Nicholas’s scholarly achievements, secretly – and he would never have admitted it to a living soul – he was proud to have sired a son who was an intellectual. Gerald’s own father had been a clever man, but his aptitude had shown itself in a business acumen that had allowed Gerald to inherit great wealth and social influence which he used to ruthless advantage.

  Now, as he surveyed his son, Gerald was well aware of the tight obstinate set of Nicholas’s mouth and the anger still burning in the dark brown eyes, and such was his strange character, his son’s mulishness afforded him some satisfaction. The boy was such a highbrow he had been worried at one point that Nicholas was all wind and water, given to poetry and other such effeminate goings-on. No, although he hadn’t let him see, he was glad Nicholas had it in him to behave like a man. His mother had spoiled the boy from infancy, that was the trouble, giving in to his whims and fancies. But this last notion of Nicholas’s, this idea of becoming a doctor, hadn’t gone down well with Camilla.

  Gerald pictured his wife’s horrified face and inwardly smiled to himself. If for nothing else he might just let the boy have his way in this. It would be good to see Camilla squirm.

  Once Nicholas had entered the drawing room Gerald shut the door and turned to face his son who was standing in front of the ornate fireplace, legs slightly apart, shoulders back and head up. It was a fighting stance, and again Gerald felt a dart of pleasure. Nicholas would be eighteen in the summer and although his son looked like a full-grown man, Gerald had been doubtful he had the backbone to act like one.

  His father’s next words took Nicholas by surprise. Instead of the tirade he had expected, Gerald’s voice was quiet, even propitiatory, when he said, ‘Brandy?’ as he gestured at the bottle and two glasses on the small table next to the armchair where he had been sitting. ‘It’s devilishly cold out there and a brandy will warm you up.’

  Nicholas’s dark eyes narrowed but he could read nothing in Gerald’s bland countenance. After a moment he nodded.

  ‘Sit down then.’ Gerald seated himself in his armchair and poured two brandies, and once Nicholas had sat down opposite him, handed him a glass. Draining his own glass in two gulps, he poured himself another which he set on the table. Then he said with no preamble, ‘How serious are you about this doctor idea? And be truthful. Is it just a way of getting out of a military career or something more?’

  ‘I’m deadly serious.’

  ‘And how long have you been thinking this way? Again, be truthful.’

  ‘For a long time, some three or four years, I suppose. I want . . .’

  ‘What?’ As Nicholas hesitated, Gerald leaned forward slightly. ‘Come on, spit it out.’

  ‘I want to be a surgeon eventually. It’s that branch of medicine I find fascinating.’

  Gerald sat back in his chair. At least the boy wasn’t intending to be a common general practitioner. One of their circle in London was a surgeon and held in some esteem. This might not be as bad as he had first thought. His voice still mild, he said, ‘And what if I don’t agree to this, Nicholas? What will you do then?’

  Nicholas stiffened. ‘With or without your help and blessing I shall pursue a medical career, Father. It will be harder if you don’t back me, financially and in every other way, I’m aware of that, but I shall do it. I’m sorry, but my mind’s made up.’

  ‘In that case it will be easier all round if I agree.’

  Nicholas blinked. ‘You agree? To my becoming a doctor?’

  ‘Like you said, your mind is made up. Of course you will have to work damn hard compared to your peers, but if that is what you want . . .’

  ‘It is. It is what I want.’ Nicholas was still grappling with his father’s capitulation; he couldn’t believe Gerald meant what he said. There had to be a catch.

  ‘All right then, it’s settled. And you’re set on London rather than Oxford or Cambridge? I know the dean at Oxford, and Major Mallard’s twin boys are going to Cambridge this year.’

  ‘I want London.’ Nicholas knew Vernon and Vivian Mallard and considered them Hooray Henrys of the worst kind without a brain cell between them.

  ‘So be it.’ Gerald was quite aware of his son’s amazement at his stance – Nicholas had always had a transparent face – and was thoroughly enjoying the boy’s bewilderment. ‘I’ll talk to your mother and tell her what we have decided.’

  ‘She won’t like it.’

  ‘That is of no consequence.’ Gerald downed his second brandy. All things considered, it was far better to keep Nicholas on side for the present. This doctor notion might die a death anyway, and even if it didn’t, the boy’s ultimate destiny was to take over the estate and everything that entailed. As his heir, Nicholas would marry well and take his place in society. He could afford to indulge the boy for the time being. And the added bonus, and one he hadn’t foreseen before today, was that this would drive a wedge between Nicholas and his mother, whilst making his son beholden to him. Something he would remind him of if necessary.

  Gerald poured them both another drink and then stretched out his legs, settling back comfortably in his chair and half-shutting his eyes. And when Nicholas did the same and what could be termed a companionable silence ensued – something that would have been an anomaly before this day – Gerald’s sense of well-being increased, especially when he contemplated his wife’s distress at the turn of events.

  He had been as annoyed and perturbed as Camilla when Nicholas had arrived home in the middle of term saying he had to talk to them because he had decided neither Oxford nor Cambridge was for him. But now – Gerald took another good swallow of brandy – now this might tu
rn out very well, even though this desire of Nicholas’s to become a surgeon was surprising in view of the fact that the boy had no stomach for shooting or hunting or any of the blood sports. He remembered the first time Nicholas had seen a fox torn apart by the hounds and had vomited all down his coat. He’d had a job to keep his hands off his son that day, embarrassing him in front of their friends and acquaintances. And Nicholas had further compounded his crime by refusing to join the hunt again. But no matter, no matter.

  Gerald took a deep breath to diffuse his temper which could rise to the boil suddenly at the slightest provocation.

  Their friends had accepted on the whole that Nicholas was an academic and, as such, allowed certain peculiarities, and as his intelligence went hand in hand with a quick wit and keen sense of humour, his son held his own in company. The ladies certainly seemed to like him.

  Gerald nodded mentally at the thought. He had noticed how the young ladies simpered and fluttered in Nicholas’s company, and some not so young too. Nicholas had the credentials to make an excellent marriage, and as his father he would see to it that any alliance would benefit the family both socially and financially.

  Gerald settled further in his chair, the only sound in the room the crackling and occasional spitting from the logs burning in the great fireplace. The warmth, good brandy in his stomach and the knowledge that he had made the right decision regarding his son settled on him satisfyingly, and after some minutes more he was gently snoring.

  Chapter Eight

  The following Sunday, when she and Robin joined Humphrey and his brothers for a walk in the countryside, Abby was still thinking about the laird’s son and the trouble he could cause for her grandfather if he complained about her behaviour to the farmer. On arriving at her grandfather’s, she had discovered that within the Border community all games were frowned upon on a Sunday and even whistling was forbidden by the grown-ups. This left little to do on a Sunday afternoon for the children who, weather permitting, usually congregated together away from the adults on Linton or Primrose Hill after Sunday lunch.