The Drayton Legacy

by Rona Randall

  Beneath the overhanging vine, it was hot and languorous. The country was enjoying a St Martin’s Summer, despite the fact that October was drawing to a close. Late bees buzzed. The air seemed closer than ever. Jessica rested against the ladder, wiping her brow. She had climbed higher than she realised, but the ladder was still firm against a solid tree trunk. The vine had linked itself to this tree, which was fortunate since it provided excellent support. She decided on a brief rest before starting again. There was little more to be done.

  It was then that a voice from below spoke her name.

  “Jessica!” it said in a tone only one man had ever used.

  The shock made her jerk round, and the ladder jerked with her, pitching her to the ground.

  The full impact of her fall was braked by Acland’s presence of mind. He half caught her, but not in time to prevent her from hitting the earth. The second mercy was that the grass was soft and thick, but in the blinding moment of shock she twisted her body in an instinctive attempt to brace herself, and pain shot through her.

  Acland helped her to her feet, anxiously enquiring if she were hurt.

  “I startled you — forgive me, dear Jessica!”

  His voice seemed to come from a distance, though his face was close to her own. She heard herself stammering assurances, though unaware of the words. His arm tightened round her. “Can you walk?” he asked. “Let me help you indoors — “

  Her stunned senses still refused to accept what had happened, or that this man had walked back into her life as if he had never gone out of it, saying her name as he had always done, holding her with an arm which felt disturbingly familiar. It was impossible that he had come back. He could not be real. She closed her eyes to blot out his face, opened them again, and saw it more clearly than before.

  When she did not speak, he asked again if she were all right, and somehow she nodded, still staring at him in disbelief. Her face was white.

  “My dear, my love, you are hurt.”

  “No — ”

  In a moment it would all pass — the pain, the shock, the bewilderment and the fear. For afraid she was; afraid that the fall had shaken her more than she realised and that it might have injured the baby within her. She had become accustomed to its movements, marvelling over them, feeling that in some way the child was communicating with her, thrusting with tiny arms and legs in its eagerness to meet her face to face. Now there was no movement, only stillness — but that was no cause for alarm because movement was never continuous. It usually came spasmodically, in small flurries. The child might even be sleeping now, resting its miraculously formed body for the journey it would take within a few weeks. Even less if, as she had heard, first babies frequently came early. And so she lulled her fears, steadying herself against Acland’s arm.

  “Can you walk?” he asked.

  She nodded, and took a step forward. It was difficult, but she refused to give in. It seemed a long way to the cottage door, but when they reached it he led her inside, seated her, and fetched a footstool.

  Kneeling before her, he said with his old disarming smile, “I always took care of you — remember? Never letting you climb the stile alone, seeing you were comfortable in our cherished meeting place.” “Don’t. Don’t!”

  “You don’t want me to recall it? Why not? Is it wrong to recall happiness?”

  She leaned back, closing her eyes. She wished the pain would go. She wished she could marshal her thoughts coherently, but she was giddy and decided to wait until she could speak without hesitation. She didn’t want to stammer uncertainly, for that was no way in which to deal with a situation that needed decisive handling.

  Soon, the pain must subside. She had twisted her back; strained a muscle, perhaps, but nothing serious. Rest would do the trick. She heard him move away, then the creak of the pump’s iron handle in the kitchen, and then his steps returning.

  “Drink this,” he said gently.

  She was glad to obey. The spring water from the pump was fresh and sparkling, coursing through her. The giddiness began to subside, but the pain remained.

  He waited, sitting within reach but not touching her. As confusion retreated her mind registered that he was as handsome as ever and even better dressed. She was glad that she was able to fasten onto mundane things and answer lucidly when he said, “Now tell me why you said ‘Don’t’ just now. Don’t come back into my life, is that what you meant? But I have come back, and I have no intention of going out of it again. I returned solely because I wanted to see you and because I am now in a position to take care of you.”

  “My husband takes care of me.”

  “In this?” He cast an eloquent glance about the cottage room; plainly, its only living room. His glance even encompassed the narrow flight of wooden steps leading to upstairs accommodation. “This is no place for you, Jessica.”

  “It is the place I have chosen, and I am happy in it.” She laid the glass aside. “Please go.”

  “But I have only just arrived and we have had no chance to talk.”

  “There is nothing to say.”

  “There is a great deal to say. And yet I can sum it up in few words. That is my child you are carrying. I shall never believe it was fathered by another man, despite what Agatha said.”

  “Agatha!”

  “I talked with her briefly. I attended her wedding only because I sought news of you.”

  Pain was gnawing again, but she managed to repeat, “Please go — ” The words came tautly.

  “When I am ready.”

  A sharp spasm, and then a merciful lull. Words came more easily then. She said, “You were ready to leave very quickly before.”

  “And you think I wanted to?”

  “Had you not, you would have stayed. Instead, you chose to be paid off.”

  “So that was what you were told, and what you chose to believe? I thought you had more faith in me. I thought you knew I would return as soon as I was in a position to do what I wanted to do — to ask you, honourably, to be my wife. And now I have achieved that position, what do I find? That you’ve married another man.” His face hardened. “But that won’t influence me. I still want you, and intend to have you. You belong to me. You gave yourself to me long ago — ”

  Pain was stirring again. She struggled out of the chair. “Go,” she stammered. “Go…go…”

  He continued as if he had not heard. “ — and the child you are carrying belongs to me. As you do.”

  “No. It is mine.”

  He took hold of her then, and his grasp was urgent.

  “Jessica, Jessica! My sweet love — you can’t have forgotten all that passed between us, all we meant to each other — ”

  “ — all you were willing to relinquish for money, or for a richer wife. Oh yes, I know you accepted a bribe from my brother, and even bargained over it — and that you asked for Agatha’s hand before finally taking a hasty leave.”

  “You have been heeding Agatha’s prattle. I may be many things, dear love, but the last woman I ever wanted to take as wife was Agatha Freeman. If she spread some garbled story about my wanting to marry her, it is untrue. What is true is that I did accept your brother’s money, and I did bargain with him for a greater sum, but for one reason only — so that I could establish myself in some profitable sphere which would enable me to come back and marry you. I had to prove myself worthy to be your husband. Had I known of the child, I would never have waited. I am telling you the truth — and another part of the truth is that I resented your brother’s attitude. I hated him because he was determined to part us. He thought me not good enough for you. And perhaps I was not. But I wanted to be. I meant to be. And with money I could be. I felt your brother owed me that much for mistrusting me so abominably. So I determined to use him for my purpose. And by God, I did. I can offer you comfort and security now — you, and our child.”

  His eyes were as tender as they had ever been; his voice as compelling. His power over her hovered in the cottage room. It th
reatened her security, drowned her in uncertainty, reached out to her in the midst of confusion and threatening pain.

  ‘Go!” she sobbed. “Please go. You have come too late.”

  “If you really want me to, go I will, but I will return to see your husband and tell him the truth.”

  “He knows the truth. All of it. Right from the beginning. Now go, I beg you.”

  Her voice was weary, her body racked. She wanted nothing so much as to drag herself to her bed, but he heard only her trembling voice. She had taken a tumble which he had prevented from being a major accident, and naturally she was shaken, but he believed she was more disturbed by seeing him again. The thought was satisfying.

  “You are tired,” he said. “I saw you working out there. You have done too much. So I will leave, for the present, but I’ll be back. Unfortunately, I have to catch the early stage to Bristol tomorrow, but I’ll return in time for the infant’s birth, then take both you and the child back with me. How long now before it is born? It must be soon, by my calculations — you see, dear Jessica, I haven’t forgotten our meetings or how much time has passed since then. Am I right in estimating about a month? I can see from your eyes that I am. Then I will arrange my affairs so that I may be near when your time comes. I will return in a month, dear love.”

  She was scarcely aware of his kiss on her brow, or of his departing footsteps. How long it took her to negotiate the wooden stairs and reach her bed, she had no idea. She was conscious only that pain was now becoming a surging torrent, unrelenting, all consuming, and that beneath it she was frightened because the child was unmoving within her, and had been so for what seemed a long time. With shaking hands she released all restricting garments, shedding them on the floor before collapsing across the bed, but all the time her subconscious mind argued that nothing could be wrong, that she had received a double shock and when she came out of it she would feel the child’s movements again. And the terrible pain would be gone.

  Instead, it gathered momentum, and as it tore her body asunder she was unaware of her screams.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Simon was grateful when Neville Armstrong suggested that his wife should recuperate at Ashburton.

  “She would be well cared for, have all the rest she needs, and you would be relieved of anxiety when absent from home. And it would give me happiness to have her beneath my roof.”

  He refrained from adding that Jessica’s appearance concerned him. There was a disturbing difference about her. A drastic loss of weight had left almost a wraith of her former self, but not only in appearance had she changed. The vitality which had always been so evident was now missing. She was unnaturally quiet, and plainly reluctant to talk to anyone.

  He had heard that childbirth could have after effects on a woman’s moods and temperament, and of course Jessica’s experience had been more tragic, and therefore more painful, than any normal birth, but a terrible apathy seemed to have taken possession of her, from which not even her husband seemed able to arouse her. She would sit rocking by the fireside, her thoughts miles away, though her eyes would follow Simon with touching gratitude when he performed some small service for her. But beyond that gratitude she had retreated into a silence shared with no one.

  Inevitably, Kendall was quieter too. The shock of his wife’s accident and its ensuing tragedy had left a mark of anxiety upon him which he was unable to shed even in work.

  Anxious to help both of them, Neville Armstrong urged Simon to consider his suggestion. “It might be unwise for your wife to be alone all day in your absence. Loneliness could be bad for her.”

  Simon confessed to the same fear. “She insists that she needs no one and that I must go about my work as if nothing has happened, but something has happened and I am afraid it will take her long to recover. Fortunately, she has occasional visitors. Young Martin comes whenever he can, and her mother drives over from Burslem, though I fear the woman’s inability to talk about anything but the tragedy does little to take Jessica’s mind off it. Her sister Phoebe comes not at all, but perhaps that is a good thing — “

  “And the Master Potter is not yet back, I hear.”

  “Nor will be for another two weeks. The accident happened the day after his wedding, the day he left with his wife for London. I understand they departed for a month. Not that Joseph Drayton is likely to call on us in any case, as you may have guessed. Nor is he likely to feel concern for his sister, since he rejected her when she married me.”

  “More fool he,” growled Sir Neville. “I never could abide that man.”

  “Nor I, candidly. So, as you may imagine, we manage well without him. So would young Martin, given the opportunity — which the Master of Drayton’s seems determined to deny him.”

  “Which is why you and your wife have helped him? His start is well justified, Simon.”

  “But meanwhile he is bound by indentures of apprenticeship, after which he should, according to the family tradition, be given a partnership.”

  “And you doubt it will come?”

  “Let us say it remains to be seen. Meanwhile, I appreciate your thought for Jessica. Such a change of scene would be good for her. The village midwife still calls occasionally, though her duties are done. She has been an angel of mercy — Cooperfield is fortunate in having such a woman. The rich of Burslem have to rely on the unreliable Wotherspoon, and the poor on Martha Tinsley, whose skills are sometimes open to doubt. On the whole, I think Amelia Freeman’s visits do Jessica more good than anyone’s. Being young and inexperienced, I would have expected Amelia to be unnerved by the shock she received. Instead, she is warm with her concern and constant in her friendship. You know that it was she who — ?”

  Who heard Jessica’s screams as she approached the cottage gate and, leaving her horse untethered, rushed indoors and found her lying on a bloodsoaked bed with a prematurely born child strangled by the umbilical cord.

  For a week following the accident, Jessica’s wan face had torn at Simon’s heart. She ate little, talked less, smiled gratefully for any kindness, but asked for, and expected, nothing.

  He was also barred by the midwife, who plainly considered husbands to be underfoot.

  The woman had taken a great liking to Jessica, paying daily visits and even returning with tempting dishes which her patient tried to eat, but never finished.

  Then, on the seventh morning, Jessica had risen, dressed, and descended before he was about. He had come downstairs to find her preparing his breakfast, her movements slow but resolute, and to his protests she had turned a deaf ear. He had gone to her then, put his hands on her shoulders, and begged her to be still.

  “The midwife will deal with everything when she comes.”

  “It is a housewife’s duty to prepare a man’s breakfast, not a midwife’s. She comes here to look after me, but I have no need of her now. I will tell her so when she arrives. I will also tell her how grateful I am for all her kindness, but I will be a burden on no one now. There is no need.”

  She had said the words gently, but it seemed that they came from a stranger, not from someone who, he had hoped, was growing closer to him daily. It was as if she had quietly closed a shutter, isolating herself behind it.

  So Simon was glad when Neville Armstrong issued his invitation. It would mean an end to the solitude she seemed to seek and which he considered bad for her. At Ashburton she would rarely be alone, for Neville Armstrong kept a large staff, entertained a great deal, and was involved in many county activities into which he would surely draw her. And her unfailing good manners would prevent her from shunning conversation with others, thus leaving her less time for introspection.

  “But I think it would be a good idea if you invited her personally, sir.”

  He didn’t say why, but he sensed that Jessica wanted no sign of concern or anxiety from him. She might well interpret as pity any suggestion that a visit away from home would do her good, and pity was the last thing her proud spirit wanted.

  �
�She’ll get over it in time, an’ be herself again, sir,” the midwife said on her final visit. “Don’t you go worriting. Just be patient. Time’s a great healer, and so is youth. And when more babes come, she’ll take it all in her stride providing she don’t go doing silly things like climbing ladders when she didn’t oughta.”

  As yet, Simon had refused to question Jessica about the accident, but he had not missed the fallen ladder, the scattered remnants of the vine, and the garden knife lying nearby, all indicating the cause.

  Nor, as yet, had he had any personal conversation with Amelia. She had acted with presence of mind, but for a young unmarried female the shock of such a discovery must have been great. Unless she should refer to it herself, he felt that to remind her of it could cause only distress.

  Even so, he wondered if she knew of anything which might have contributed to the disaster. There were grooves on the tree trunk where the ladder had been wedged and, testing it against them, they had proved to be secure, as did the dents in the earth which the base of the ladder had occupied, and pressure marks at both ends clearly indicated that the position had been tested for safety. From this he deduced that something unexpected had happened to dislodge the ladder, and what it was, Simon was determined to find out.

  Neville Armstrong worded his invitation in such a way that Jessica could not decline. She found herself torn between a desire to remain in the wheelwright’s cottage — letting the days slip by like beads upon a string, looking neither backward to the past nor forward to the future — and a desire to escape before Roger Acland came back into her life, for this time she did not doubt his return. The determined man whose reappearance had shocked her just over two weeks ago, had made no idle threat. He would come, and he would expect her compliance.

  In her state of physical exhaustion, logical thought became difficult and decisiveness impossible. Of the actual event she remembered little; it was lost in a pain ridden haze through which faces had sometimes emerged and then disappeared, but first there had been a voice, calling her name amidst a tumult of screams. But the voice had not been responsible for the screams. Those had come from somewhere within her own brain, crashing through barriers of unconsciousness, crying aloud for help. Then there had been waves of blackness in which she struggled against a foe wearing the hideous face of death. The battle had been harsh and the enemy ruthless, pitching his violence against her will to live. And then the voice had called her name and brought her back to consciousness, and eyes which she could scarcely focus saw the bright young face of Amelia. But it was bright no longer. In it was stark fear, but greater than the fear had been a desperate compassion. And the voice had been Amelia’s, too, gasping something about fetching help and then vanishing as Jessica reached out blindly toward her. Then oblivion again.